


The love-philtre

by Maroucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, book canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:12:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 87,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maroucia/pseuds/Maroucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Sandor both accidentally drink from a wineskin containing a love-philtre. A GOT AU where Sansa is aged-up. Beta-ed by Wildsky Sheri</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maracuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/gifts).



> Here’s a new fic inspired by a Maracuyakongeen prompt from last summer’s comment fic on Sansa_Sandor (LJ). She has filled it herself lately with her very funny ‘The pyromancer potion’ and here’s my take on it. I hope you’ll all enjoy!

**Eddard**

Eddard was bowed over a pile of documents, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb. The small headache that had shyly started tickling his brow a couple of hours ago was now getting increasingly hard to ignore, still he couldn’t put his work aside just yet. His overview of the realm’s finances was far from over and with every new parchment he unrolled, he stumbled over more and more disquieting irregularities. Were the Seven Kingdoms so badly governed that mistakes were that common in paperwork or were there people voluntarily perpetrating them for their own benefit? And how long had it gone on like this? Finding answers to these questions would be crucial in the moons to come but the scale of the effort it would require was both mind-blowing and discouraging.

 

Sighing, Ned braced his back and looked out the window. It was well past noon by now and he hadn’t had a bite since dawn. He could send a servant to fetch him some food but the prospect of going to the kitchen himself and stretching his legs at the same time greatly appealed to him. It was true that taking a small walk would delay him in his work but it would also help increase his concentration when he returned and thus, in the long run, render him more efficient and allow him to save time.

 

His decision made, Eddard left his solar and went through the long corridor that led to the stairs. On his way, he saw Sansa sitting by a window and practicing her scales on the new high harp he had gotten her on her last name day. At seeing him, she grinned sweetly without halting in her exercise but Ned only managed a faint, little smile in return. While he felt guilty for his lack of warmth, he simply had no energy left for his daughters these days and sadly, there was no way he could change the situation as long as he was Hand of the King. His family couldn’t come first when the realm’s wellbeing was at stake after all, no matter how much it pained him.

 

In only a few minutes, Ned descended the stairs, crossed the Small Hall and exited the Tower of the Hand. It was a beautiful, cool and breezy day outside and as soon as he got out, he itched to go for a long stroll in the city - no matter how dirty and noisy its narrow streets could be – however it would be impossible if he truly wished to complete the tasks he had assigned himself before dusk came. Sighing in resignation, Ned entered through the kitchen’s open door and looked around him. The place was empty of any cooks or scullery maids but being used to eating at odd hours, he knew exactly where he was going and headed for the larder where the salted meats and cheeses were kept. Inside, he found a long dried sausage and a piece of soft cheese that would do perfectly and from a long working table not far away, he picked up a loaf of bread that still remained from the previous meal. As he was searching for some linen he might use to carry his food, Eddard considered the idea of eating outside instead of going straight to his solar. There was no denying that he was highly tempted. His work was important, yes, but there was no reason he couldn’t have lunch in peace every now and then.

 

“My lord Hand!” the agitated voice of a man interrupted Ned’s train of thought just as he had found what he was looking for.

 

Turning toward the sound, he saw a small man with a white beard scurrying in his direction. Judging by his garb, he was probably one of the few pyromancers that still resided at the Red Keep.

 

“Have you seen a wineskin? I left it there on the bread table earlier today,” the man asked, totally out of breath while pointing at an empty spot next to the few loaves that still remained.

 

“No, I didn’t. But why should you be so upset about your loss? There is plenty of wine to be had in the cellar.”

 

“Oh but, my lord! That wasn’t just _any_ sort of wine in that skin…” he began in a queer mix of enthusiasm and awe, before halting when he saw the other man’s expression sour.

 

“What have you put inside?” Eddard asked warily, unable to keep the newborn irritation he felt from showing in his voice. “Is someone in danger?”

 

Eyes grown wide, the pyromancer shook his head with a little too much ardour. “Oh no! Not in _danger_ , my lord! Don’t you worry,” he insisted. Then, mouth pulling into a forced smile, he added, “It’s only a ... _philtre_ I’ve concocted, an experiment I may very well have succeeded in-”

 

“ _An_ _experiment_?” Ned repeated, both taken aback and horrified. “Why by the old gods would you put the product of your _experiment_ \- as you call it - in a wineskin and leave it in the kitchens of all places? Couldn’t you surmise that someone might mistake it for wine?” Ned snapped disbelievingly, forgetting himself for an instant. He had never liked those pyromancers; they were a vestige of another era and it was a true wonder that Robert hadn’t eradicated their guild a long time ago.

 

“I didn’t leave the wineskin intentionally, of course!” the pyromancer hurriedly retorted.  “I forgot it an hour ago, when I came to fetch myself some lunch. I went to my laboratory afterwards with my food and sadly only realised my neglect once I was done eating. I ran here as soon as I could but it appears that it’s too late already...”

 

Passing a hand through his hair, Ned shook his head in despair. He had other things to do and plenty at that! Yet, who was to say what sort of poison the pyromancer had hidden in his wineskin? “What is this potion of yours supposed to do?” he asked more calmly, all the while distractedly looking out the window and trying to figure out how he should deal with the situation.

 

“It’s a... ah... love-philtre, my lord,” the pyromancer murmured, lowering his head as if he was expecting a blow.

 

“A _love-philtre_? By the gods!” Ned exclaimed, incredulous. “What does it have to do with fire? I’ve always heard that was all your guild has ever cared about.”

 

“Well although fire is our main subject of study, we are still allowed to research other subjects on the side, Lord Hand,” the small man explained, obviously relieved that his revelation had not triggered the ire he had feared.

 

“I see,” Ned replied absentmindedly.

 

While he couldn’t bring himself to believe in something as absurd as a _love-philtre_ , Eddard couldn’t disregard the possibility that the pyromancer’s concoction might be poisonous - no matter what the man pretended. As much as it pained him, resuming his overview would prove impossible today and he would need to let the documents pile up on his desk a little longer. For now, the priority was to find whoever had drunk the wineskin’s contents and pray that no ill had taken them yet.

 

*****

 

“Bring me more wine. And some of that Myrish cheese I ate earlier as well,” the king was asking one of his footmen.

 

Bowing politely, the servant immediately left while another bent discreetly from behind Robert to refill his tankard with what wine still remained. Grunting with satisfaction, the latter gulped thirstily at his beverage.

 

Once he had had his fill, the king turned in his armchair to eye Ser Barristan Selmy. “Perhaps we should call the rest of your fellow Kingsguards, Barristan,” he began with unhidden mirth. “If any of them has drunk the philtre, we’ll see then whether duty or love has more value in his eyes!” he roared, laughing heartily at his own jape.

 

A weak, tired smile curving his lips, Ned glanced at his old friend from the modest throne he was installed in. Robert was sitting in a regular cushion chair by his side and although Ned had insisted that he take the throne, the king had refused, arguing that they were in the Hand’s Small Hall and that even with his status as head of the realm, he had no right to occupy the place.

 

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan replied, visibly ill-at-ease at the king’s implication. “At the time the _incident_ took place, those of my brothers that weren’t on duty were at a meeting with me in the Round Room. Thus none could have been to the kitchens.”

 

“Mmm, oh well, we could ask Jory to fetch a few of the noblemen and women instead,” the king proposed.

 

The young Northerner jumped slightly at being named and gave a nod to confirm his willingness to follow whatever orders he might be given.

 

“This is going to get trickier though,” Robert supposed, raising concerned eyes toward his friend. “Those proud bastards won’t appreciate being dragged over here to be interrogated in the least.”

 

“I’m afraid you’re right, Your Grace,” Eddard muttered flatly, all the while trying to find a strategic way they could proceed.

 

They had already interviewed every handmaiden, cook, footman, or whatever other servants the Red Keep contained, without result. All the goldcloaks that had been off duty around noon had also been brought in for questioning but none of them had taken a wineskin from the bread table. Logic demanded that they now called the nobles but it was obvious the latter would react more poorly than their retainers had. Ned glanced out the window; it was already well dark. What time was it exactly? he wondered, discouraged.

 

“Adelardus? I just thought of something,” the king suddenly told the pyromancer, jerking his head to look at him. “What will happen if more than two people have drunk your potion?” His eyes were shining with curiosity. Unlike him, Robert obviously enjoyed every second of the enquiry.

 

Albeit Ned hadn’t planned on informing the king of such a small matter. Their paths had crossed by chance in an alley not long after his meeting with the pyromancer. When Robert had heard about that alleged _love potion_ , he had been so amused that he had insisted that he help with the interrogations. The idea that he would be so interested by a wholly _insignificant_ concern while there were hundreds of infinitely more pressing things to be dealt with was more than slightly infuriating to Ned but he knew well enough that complaining wouldn’t lead anywhere.

 

“Your Grace, if I may, the philtre is meant only for two persons,” the pyromancer began, bowing low from where he stood at the king’s side. “Only the two first to have drunk it will know any effect.”

 

“Interesting,” Robert muttered, scratching his beard.

 

Without meaning it, Ned sighed audibly. He rarely showed contempt for anyone but today, he found it increasingly difficult to control himself. “How can you know all these details about your concoction’s effects? Most of all, how can you even be sure it works?”

 

His hands nervously clasped before his chest, Adelardus quickly started explaining himself. “I have given small doses to a variety of animals. In all cases, after having drunk the philtre, the said creatures have… have… ” he suddenly hesitated, apparently unsure of how he should phrase his thoughts. Then, gulping, he resumed: “They have constantly copulated.”

 

At that, the king’s booming laughter resounded in the Small Hall. “And have they not stopped since then?” he managed to breathe after a few long seconds, tears pearling in his eyes.

 

Gazing at the king, the pyromancer chanced a small shy smile but he promptly regained his dismayed expression when his eyes darted to Ned and he saw the depth of his frown. “N… no, Your Grace,” he replied, staring at his feet. “Some have already bred a few litters-”

 

“Oh, this is too good!” Robert roared, laughing even louder. “Can you imagine that, Ned? This is the most hilarious event to ever happen in the Red Keep since the beginning of my reign! It’s even more perfect now that we know one of our _very dignified_ nobles will most likely fall victim to this potion.”

 

“Myself, I have to admit that I’m not very amused,” Ned spat darkly. “Besides, I don’t believe in _love-philtres_ or any similar trickery.”

 

“Then why are we here, Ned?” the king asked, visibly puzzled.

 

“Because I fear this charlatan might have poisoned someone!” Eddard answered a little too roughly, pointing at the pyromancer. He immediately regretted his outburst but with the throbbing nightmare his headache had become, it was getting increasingly hard to control his temper. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to-”

 

“Oh, forget it, Ned. I didn’t come all the way to Winterfell to ask you to become my Hand so that you would pour honey in my ears. We’ll find out soon enough who has drunk the potion anyway and see if the pyromancer is telling the truth then.” Furrowing his brows, he added, “Don’t you think the reaction of the animals Adelardus has tested is revealing though?”

 

“Animals don’t need any medicine to couple, Your Grace,” Eddard countered.

 

“That’s true enough,” the king admitted, apparently annoyed at the notion that the elixir might not have its presumed effect. “Oh well,” he exhaled after a moment, rubbing his hands together. “We still need to continue our inquiry, don’t we? Who should we ask Jory to fetch this time?”

 

Ned was far from certain but he was nonetheless about to chance a few names when the outside door abruptly slammed open. Every eye in the room darted toward the threshold to see Sandor Clegane enter, shortly followed by a terrified looking footman carrying the wine the king had demanded earlier. Ned’s frown deepened at the sight; there was no love lost between him and the Lannister’s dog.

 

“Your Grace, I’ve been told you were here by your footman,” the scarred warrior rasped in that very specific hoarse voice of his. “The Queen wants to have a word with you and has asked me to seek you.”

 

At that, the king let out an annoyed growl. “What does that woman want now?” he complained to himself but then, his expression changed and he laid interested eyes on his son’s sworn shield. “Clegane, come closer, will you? The Lord Hand and I are presently carrying on an investigation and while you’re here with us, I think it would be foolish if we didn’t take the time to ask you a few questions also.” Robert gazed at him expectedly, drinking a long gulp from his tankard.

 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” the Hound replied, clearly on his guard. Still, he did as he was bid and walked toward them at an unhurried pace.

 

Once he was standing before him, Ned sighed and began. “Did you go to the kitchens around midday?” he demanded dryly.

 

“I did but I don’t see why there should be any problem with that. I’m entitled to eat, I should think,” the man grunted a little too roughly for Eddard’s liking.

 

Still, he kept the thought to himself and continued. “And did you perchance drink from a wineskin that had been left on the bread table?”

 

At hearing the question, Sandor Clegane’s face twisted into a perplexed scowl. “Aye,” he answered with some hesitance after a couple of seconds. “Was it really that important that you need to question half the castle about it? The wine wasn’t really that good anyhow. Had a strange taste.”

 

The Hound had not finished his sentence before Robert choked on his wine. “You! You, Clegane! The _last_ person I would have pictured! Imagine that, Ned!” he exclaimed between fits of coughing and laughter.

 

“What’s so bloody funny?” the Hound snapped angrily just as soon. “What the hells did I drink?”

 

Seeing how the king could hardly catch his breath, Eddard took over. “The pyromancer Adelardus here has left a… a _potion_ on the bread table around noon and you have apparently been the one to drink it.”

 

“A potion? What sort of _potion_?” Sandor Clegane hissed between gritted teeth, taking a step toward the pyromancer. While he had not raised his voice, his stance and burning glare made it very clear that rage was boiling under the surface.

 

Shrinking at least a few inches, the little man tried to back away but the king was too near and he was forced to stay in place.

 

“Speak, Adelardus,” Ned ordered, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

 

“It was a… a love-philtre,” he whispered, eyes glued to the floor and hands folded in a trembling mass of fingers.

 

“ _A love-philtre_ ,” Sandor Clegane repeated, making the words sound like curses. The burnt corner of his mouth was twitching and his eyes were gleaming so menacingly that even Ned felt slightly bad for the smaller man. “What by the fucking Stranger is that supposed to mean? Uh?!”

 

“Well, it’s a love-philtre, ser! The name says it pretty clearly-”

 

“I’m no fucking ser! And no, I don’t bloody understand. Explain!” The king’s muffled chuckle could be heard in the background and the Hound glanced his way, evidently irritated at being the butt of the joke, still he quickly fixed his stare on Adelardus again.

 

“If anyone other than you has drunk from the philtre… then… you and that person will be… madly in love.” With every word the pyromancer said, Sandor Clegane’s expression became more wrathful and the little man flinched at the sight. “But if you have been the only one to consume the concoction, there will be no effect!” he hurriedly added. “Was it still full when you drunk it? And did you leave it empty?”

 

Adelardus’ suggestion seemed to calm the Hound very slightly and he paused to consider what he had told him. “I drank it all,” he rasped after a moment. “It wasn’t good, but I was thirsty. It wasn’t full when I took it though. It was missing at least a glass.”

 

“Oh,” the pyromancer let out, dejected. “Then you’ll be… in love with the other person. And they with you.”

 

“ _They_? What the fuck do you mean by that?”

 

“Well, se… my lord, contrary to what most believe, sexes have naught to do with love. There is no reason the other person couldn’t be a-”

 

In less than an eye blink, Sandor Clegane had run to Adelardus and grabbed him by the collar. The small man squeaked and both Ser Barristan and Jory rushed to protect him but the Hound turned his back to one and pushed the other aside while raising the pyromancer off the floor.

 

“Are you implying that I might be in buggering _love_ with a bloody man? Are you truly telling me _that_?!” he yelled in Adelardus’ face.

 

“But you wouldn’t mind it, my lord!” the pyromancer justified, his voice quivering with fright. “That’s the whole point of the philtre! Once you laid eyes on him, you’ll love-”

 

“Will you shut that _buggering mouth_ of yours or do I need to crush your ugly head against the stone wall to silence you?” the Hound snarled, violently shaking Adelardus.

 

Both Ser Barristan and Jory were trying to get to him but the Hound kept turning and moving away, shoving them with his free arm and elbow. In the corner of the hall, the king’s two footmen were following the spectacle with wide eyes, seemingly torn between excitement and unease at witnessing such an event.

 

 _This needs to stop,_ Ned mused once his surprise had faded. No matter how much Sandor Clegane was entitled to his rage, he couldn’t let him execute his threat. With that in mind, Eddard opened his mouth to shout an order, however at the same instant, the inner door of the hall opened, which was certainly strange considering that solely members of the Hand’s household could come that way. His gaze flying to the door, Ned raised an eyebrow at seeing Sansa standing motionless in the threshold.

 

“Oh!” she exclaimed at beholding the scene she had interrupted. When they heard her cry, every man in the hall froze to stare her way and the young girl seemed totally petrified at becoming the centre of attention of such a dissolute party. “Father,” she whispered after a long and awkward moment. “I didn’t mean to disturb you but…” she trailed off, falling silent.

 

“What is it, Sansa?” Eddard asked more irritably than he usually liked to be with his children.

 

Impatiently, he gazed at her, waiting for an explanation, but he quickly realised something was amiss by the bewildered look she wore. Her mouth was open as if in shock and she was staring at something before him, her utmost attention grasped. In an eye blink, Ned’s annoyance morphed into concern and he followed her gaze with his, his bemusement only increasing when it landed on none other than Sandor Clegane. Fixing her with a gaze of the same dumb intensity, the man dropped the pyromancer to the floor at the same instant – just as if he had completely forgotten he had been clutching at his collar – and took a step over his squirming and moaning body to slowly walk toward Sansa.

 

Hastily, Eddard jumped from his throne to interpose himself between her and the Hound. Once he reached her, his heart skipped a beat as an idea suddenly struck him, cold fear shrouding his mind. “Sansa?” he asked, seizing her by the shoulders. “Have you been to the kitchens today?”

 

“Y… yes, father,” she answered, glancing his way but shortly jerking her head to peer behind him. “Why?”

 

“Have you drunk from a wineskin that was left on the bread table?” he demanded urgently, lowering his face to hers in an attempt to catch her gaze.

 

The stratagem worked although she seemed very distracted - almost _nervous_ in some queer sort of way. “I… I did, Father. But I thought it was sweet wine and after a few sips I realised it was far too bitter and threw out the contents of my glass,” she explained, her eyes darting from his as soon as she had finished.

 

“Oh gods…” Ned sighed in total despair, glancing at the ceiling. He still didn’t want to believe in the pyromancer’s philtre and yet, as he glanced behind him and saw Sandor Clegane’s large shape standing as immobile as a statue, he dreaded that he might have been wrong after all. “Jory, take her to her room, please,” he murmured wearily.

 

“Of course, Lord Stark,” the Northerner promptly answered, visibly ill-at-ease. Quickly he walked to Sansa and laid a hand on her upper arm. “Come, Lady Sansa. It’s getting late.”

 

The girl gave a small nod and let him lead her to the stairs, yet she kept obsessively turning to peek behind her. The Hound wasn’t much better; he was openly staring at her and even went so far as to take another step forward as Sansa left the Small Hall but Ser Barristan grasped him by the arm and stopped him.

 

Once the door was shut, Eddard let out a long and deep sigh and spread both his hands over the sides of his face, massaging his scalp with his fingers. His head felt as if it was about to explode at any instant.

 

“Well, Ned, at least we found them,” Robert hazarded after a few long, awkward seconds of silence. Leaving his armchair, he walked to his friend. “Adelardus will surely find an antidote to his philtre very soon. Am I right?” he asked, looking at the small man with commanding eyes.

 

“I’m not sure that…” the pyromancer began but at seeing all the frowns he got, he corrected. “Oh, yes, of course, Your Grace. I will.”

 

“It’s settled then,” the king concluded a little too cheerfully, heading toward the Hound. The corners of his mouth were tense as if he was fighting not to grin, still he managed to keep a blank expression and Ned appreciated the effort. “Clegane can be trusted to master himself. Am I right? You’re a headstrong man. You won’t be bothering that young lady until our friend here, Adelardus, has found a cure for this _potion_ , won’t you, Clegane?”

 

A hush fell over the Small Hall as everyone in the room laid eyes on the tall, scarred warrior, holding their breath as they waited to hear his response.

 

“Aye,” the Hound rasped very unconvincingly after an endless moment.

 

“All is fine then,” the king roared, slapping Sandor Clegane on the back.

 

Ned wasn’t persuaded in _the least_ , still he grunted his approval and took his leave an instant later, adamant about not leaving it as it was.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second one is up! I hope you’ll all like it! :)

**Sansa**

Sansa was in her room, running a brush through her already untangled hair, all the while humming a love song she had very recently learned. The melody was so exquisite and the lyrics were so much more moving than any other she had ever heard that she had never been able to stop tears from pearling in her eyes whenever she sang it. Yet this morning, she felt the music more acutely than she had ever had before. It was unsettling but at the same time, oh so exhilarating.

 

In a sudden rush of overpowering emotion, she rose from her armchair and strode to her bed, letting herself fall onto her back over the covers. What were those queer sensations that kept rising from her belly and spreading all over her body? And how could she possibly feel them thinking of… _him_?

 

“Sansa!” a whiny voice abruptly interrupted her daydream. “Is it true? Is what I heard _really_ true?” Arya asked, storming through the ajar door.

 

Sansa’s younger sister was dressed in her abominable worn out breeches and tunic and the young girl wrinkled her nose in distaste at the sight. If only Mother had forced her to leave those horrid clothes at Winterfell. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, sitting at the edge of her bed and rearranging her hair.

 

“All the servants are talking about it! You drank a potion and now you’re in love with _the Hound_!” she almost screamed, her face twisted in both distaste and horror.

 

“It’s not true!” Sansa retorted, feeling her lips pull uncontrollably into a smile and her cheeks colour.

 

“Oh, yeah? So then, why are you grinning?” her sister asked, settling her hands over her hips.

 

“Because you’re stupid!” Sansa replied, raising her chin proudly.

 

“I am _not_!” Arya exclaimed angrily. Then, she calmed herself slightly and continued, glaring at her sister. “I heard all kind of stories when I went to the kitchens. I hope they’re untrue, still I saw father come to your room this morning so I know something is up. If all the servants are lying, _why_ did he come then, tell me?” she demanded impatiently.

 

“It’s not your business,” Sansa snapped, folding her arms over her chest and turning her head around to close the conversation.

 

Arya understood the meaning of the gestures and left immediately, yet her displeasure was made more than clear by the way she slammed the door behind her.

 

From the moment she was alone, Sansa sighed in relief and let herself fall onto her featherbed again. _So it’s really true then,_ she mused, hands spread over her fluttering heart. Jeyne had told her earlier today about a magic potion every servant was gossiping about but she had been unsure she should believe in such a silly notion. Now though, as the evidence was piling up, she was starting to accept the rumour as authentic. Besides, she could feel herself that something totally beyond her control was at work in the depths of her core and soul. From the instant she had laid eyes on the Hound yesterday, it was as if she had been struck by thunder and everything had changed for her in the blink of an eye. She had never even dared dream that the sight of anyone could cause such turmoil in her. The mere memory of those dark, grey eyes staring at her with the same amazed and yet desperate passion she felt was enough to make her skin prickle all over and warmth pool in her belly. She had been bewitched but she _loved it_ , oh yes she did…

 

Earlier this morning, Father had come to visit her in her room. Without a single word of greeting, he had entered and shut the door behind him before sitting at the edge of her featherbed. His face had been taut from an evident lack of sleep and his expression had been so stern that Sansa had stiffened in her armchair, certain that he had come to chide her. For a few long and uncomfortable seconds he had stayed there, silently watching her while seemingly not really seeing her but then he had sighed and his features had softened faintly.

 

“Sansa,” he had begun before hesitating for an instant. “There have been some… _developments_ that… that require you to be careful in the days to come.” Father’s face had wrinkled at that as if the words had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

“What is it, Father? What happened?” Sansa had quickly inquired, genuinely curious. That something special had transpired yesterday when she had interrupted the commotion in the Small Hall had been obvious but nobody had yet told her about the potion at that moment and she had been left clueless and hopelessly hoping for an explanation for the queer agitation she felt.

 

At hearing her question, Father’s mouth had pulled into a frown and his eyes had taken on an irritated gleam. “I’m not sure exactly either, Sansa,” he had muttered, looking away and clearing his throat. “All I know is that you’ll have to watch yourself from now on. I won’t allow you to go anywhere outside the Hand’s Tower by yourself anymore.”

 

“But, Father! I can’t always stay in here! The garden is so beautiful these days! I-”

 

“You’ll still be allowed to go, only not _alone_ ,” he had countered, raising his voice slightly. Then, laying severe eyes on her he had added, “Most of all though, Sansa, you need to _stay_ _away_ from that man, Sandor Clegane. I don’t want you to go _anywhere_ near him.”

 

Her eyes grown wide, Sansa had felt her mouth open in shock. “But Father! Why such a demand?” she had asked, her whole face blushing at the mention of the name that had so oddly obsessed her all through the night. “What wrong has the Hound done that you would warn me so?” Of their own accord, her lips had curled into a small and absurdly _guilty_ smile. Why should she feel guilty? She had done naught wrong!

 

Father had frowned at seeing her expression and an infuriated spark had passed through his eyes. “Sansa! I don’t need to give you _any_ explanation. Just do as I bid and don’t ask any more questions!” he had ordered so strictly that she had flinched and been actually frightened for the space of an instant.

 

The moment didn’t last though, for Father quickly lost some of the tension of his face and regained his usual calm demeanour. “I know you did nothing wrong, Sansa, and I’m not punishing you - no matter how it seems to you,” he had began in a soft but weary voice. “I just want what’s best for you and for that reason, there are some things that are best kept from you. For now, just listen to what I tell you and _stay away from that man._ Can I count on you?”

 

Subdued, Sansa had nodded sadly, unsure why she felt so dejected at the prospect of being forbidden to see someone she had never spent any time with in the past anyhow. She was still melancholic now as she remembered the conversation she had shared with her lord father but at least everything was starting to make sense.

 

 _I’m in love with him,_ she reflected, the words so strange and exhilarating at once. The idea was beyond illogical though; she didn’t even really know him after all! Her feelings for Sandor Clegane were the work of a magic which she couldn’t even start to fathom. _And yet, we both drank the philtre,_ Sansa mused, the speed of her pulse increasing at the implication. _The Hound_ _is in love with me also!_ she reminded herself, closing her eyes and letting out a deep, shivering sigh.

Why had she never noticed how perfectly muscled he was? And why had she not been taken by the deep intensity of his grey eyes before and more impressed by the way he overshadowed every man that surrounded him with his uncommon height? Prior to the potion, she had barely been able to glance at his scars and been so terribly frightened by the rage that boiled within him that she had trembled anytime she stumbled into him. However, while she still found everything about him terribly daunting, his ferocity had gained an oddly thrilling flavour. She longed to bask in the contradictory sensations he triggered in her and to share his strength. _All those changes in me and yet, we have barely met since the philtre…_ When would she get a chance to see Sandor Clegane again? The mere question brought tears to her eyes. Father had been incontestably clear in his instructions. She couldn’t disobey him! At least as Joffrey’s nameday tourney was coming shortly, she would get to admire his prowess in less than a sennight but that wouldn’t be enough. Still, she had no other option and would need to content herself with the fleeting glances they would exchange.

 

“Sansa, how are you, my child?” Septa Mordane’s voice came from the threshold.

 

Embarrassed at being surprised lying on her featherbed in the middle of the afternoon, Sansa hurriedly sat up. “Oh, all is fine, Septa Mordane.”

 

“Are you certain? If you’d like, I could call for a handmaiden to help you undress. You perhaps need some sleep,” the old woman proposed with evident worry. Had Father spoken to her?

 

“No, I’m not tired. If anything, I need some fresh air and to stretch my legs. Mayhap we could go to the Sept together?” Sansa chanced. She couldn’t stop herself from hoping that they might encounter the Hound on their way and felt instantly remorseful for her dishonesty. _Septa Mordane will most_ _likely see right through me and refuse anyhow,_ Sansa predicted just as soon.

 

Yet, the old septa smiled kindly and nodded. “That’s an excellent idea, Sansa. A lady should worship at least once a day.”

 

The girl had to bite her lip not to smile too much at hearing the woman’s response. “Yes, of course,” she said, standing from her featherbed.

 

After having fixed her messed-up hair before the large mirror that adorned the wall, Sansa followed Septa Mordane outside her chamber, her cheeks burning from the shame she felt at hiding her true motive. It wasn’t like her to deceive people and she didn’t enjoy doing it in the least. Still in truth, there was naught wrong in what she was doing. If they stumbled into the Hound on their way, it wouldn’t be her fault after all. Anyway, the chances that they would weren’t very high. _Although, we’ll pass by the yard…_ Mayhap he’d be there, practicing his fighting skills?

 

They walked down the stairs, Septa Mordane asking Sansa about her progress with the high harp and the girl telling her how she loved the instrument. She was distracted though and when they finally left the tower and walked along the long balcony that passed over the yard, she couldn’t stop her stare from wandering down in search of Sandor Clegane. A group of men were fighting and in their mist, she rapidly discerned the one she had been hoping to see. Towering over them all, the Hound was standing a little behind, apparently resting from a previous encounter. Sansa gasped at the view and halted in her tracks to lay her hands over the railing – the old septa all but forgotten. As if he had been waiting for her to appear, Sandor Clegane’s gaze darted to her almost instantly and the man took a step forward, craning his neck. _I love him,_ Sansa thought as their eyes locked. He seemed just as captivated as her with his narrowed, gleaming eyes, slightly opened mouth and heaving chest.

 

The Hound was exactly as she remembered from the previous night in the Small Hall: tall, dark, muscular and so incredibly fearsome. Her heart was fluttering in her ribcage like some restless butterfly begging to be freed and her knees were becoming so weak she dreaded that they might give out from under her. Sansa had never known what love was before, she realised and would certainly never live through anything similar with anyone else in the many years she had to come.

 

“Sansa!” Septa Mordane exclaimed in obvious shock. “You shouldn’t be staring at this… at _these_ _men_!”

 

“Oh! I’m sorry! I-”

 

“Come now. Let’s go,” the old woman scolded, seizing her by the arm and dragging her away. “Didn’t your lord father tell you not to… _engage_ with any baseborn retainer?”

 

“I wasn’t! I was only…” Sansa trailed off, well aware of how useless any explanation would be.

 

Father had told the septa about the potion, there was no doubting it now. She barely managed not to weep at the thought of her love being known and regarded so poorly by everyone she knew. That love-philtre was a real curse indeed. She was now in love with a man she would never get to see. How would she ever manage to carry on like this? she wondered, a single tear running down her cheek.

 

**Sandor**

The practice had gone alright, although Sandor hadn’t been very attentive and had let his opponents hit him more often than he usually did. It wasn’t like him to be so careless when it came to battle but he hadn’t been able to keep himself from being troubled by invasive and overpowering thoughts he clearly had no control over. _You buggering old, foolish dog,_ he had relentlessly repeated to himself whenever her face formed in his mind.

 

When at last he had realised there was no chance that he would regain his accustomed concentration, Sandor had sighed in despair, removed his helm and tossed it to the ground. As he had wiped his sweaty face with the back of his hand, his mouth had given a few violent twitches, revealing to anyone attentive enough how exasperated he was with himself for being so bloody weak. How could a mere beverage affect him so? he had wondered, outraged. Sandor didn’t believe in _magic_ any more than he did White Walkers or those bloody dragons the songs were filled with and the idea that his body and soul could disagree so much with his mind was utterly annoying to him. _Perhaps I’m slowly going mad_ , he had mused while grabbing his helm from the dirt floor. _What I need is some wine – a whole lot of it even. And perhaps a whore too._ Suddenly determined, Sandor had clenched his jaw and begun heading for the door but he had not made it two steps when he felt some sort of a presence – _her_ presence – and brusquely stopped, his plans instantly forgotten.

 

As if guided by some bloody instinct, his eyes found her in less than a heartbeat, gazing down at him from the balcony that surrounded the yard. The little bird: so delicate and graceful, as fresh as a spring morning and pure as the clear waters of her native North.How Sandor had wanted her at that moment. He had been about to run to the stairs and join her when that old hag she had for septa had grabbed her by the arm and dragged her away.

 

And now here he was, left alone in a crowd of men, desperately staring at the emptiness where she had stood instants before, all the while reliving those few brief seconds he had been allowed to admire her perfection and feeling more lost than he had in a very long time.

 

“Sandor?” an unpleasant, smug voice suddenly asked, bringing him back to the present moment. “Please don’t tell me that ridiculous rumour is not just a load of bullshit.”

 

Jerking his head aside, Sandor laid irritated eyes on the Kingslayer. The blond bastard was gazing at him with a queer mix of contempt, disbelief and delight.

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Sandor hissed, giving him the most threatening look he could muster.

 

“Seven Hells, but it _is_ true!” Jaime Lannister let out in an astounded whisper before bursting into short, muffled laughter. Once he had calmed himself he added in an undertone; “The infamous and feared Hound, _in love_ with our noble Hand’s sweet and highbornmaidendaughter. How absurd but oh, how _amusing_ it is.”

 

“Shut your buggering mouth, Kingslayer!” Sandor raged, bringing his face close to the other man’s.

 

While Jaime took a precautionary step back, he didn’t appear disconcerted in the least and only began to snigger. “I wish you luck with your love affair, dog! You’ll need a lot of it; that father she has won’t make it easy for you lovebirds,” the bugger murmured through his wide grin.

 

“Go fuck yourself, Kingslayer,” Sandor snarled as he stalked away.

 

“Hey! Don’t take it like that!” Jaime protested in a hushed tone, following him to the door. “Perhaps you won’t believe it but I’m on your side. I have sympathy for forbidden loves, you know.”

 

Sandor barely listened to him. The idea that everyone in the Red Keep knew about his _feelings_ infuriated him no end. _Bloody philtre,_ he cursed inwardly as he strode through the corridor.He had not wanted _any_ of this.

 

Although, there was no denying he had desired the girl before. If truth be told, he had lusted for her from the very first time he had set eyes on her. Still, as she was Joffrey’s bloody _betrothed_ and had always been so obviously scared of him, Sandor had learned to live with his abject longing a long time ago. He had never harboured a shadow of hope that his need may be fulfilled in any way that didn’t have to do with his hand fisted around his cock.

 

Things were different now though. He didn’t just want her physically; something had changed in the very bottom of his soul and he seemingly couldn’t think of her without feeling his heart beat a little faster. True, fucking her was still very much on his mind, yet Sandor now also yearned for a whole set of other things he would never have believed he might one day come to wish for. Why should he care so much about protecting a highborn maiden that clearly didn’t need his help? And why should he want to spend every fucking minute of his life with anyone at all? Sandor had cursed himself over these questions all through the previous night and while it was still a buggering wonder to him, he now found it didn’t bother him half as much.

 

Sandor had noticed how the little bird had looked at him yesterday, of course, but he had discarded the memory as some stupid fantasy as soon as he had left the Small Hall – no matter what that ludicrous pyromancer’s potion was supposed to do. A maiden as perfect as Sansa Stark could never fall infucking _love_ with the likes of him. That was what he had continuously repeated to himself from dusk to dawn - and even after - but he wasn’t so sure anymore.

 

After having seen those shining blue eyes gaze at him so imploringly from the balcony minutes ago, he couldn’t refrain from truly believing the passion he felt was indeed mutual. The little bird had drunk the philtre same as he had, after all. _Too bad the rest of Westeros won’t want this as well,_ Sandor mused as he neared his room. Yet, he had never given a rat’s arse about what anyone cared in the past, so why should he now? He snorted at that. He didn’t, evidently.

 

He would get her _no matter what_ , and bugger every last bloody person who’d try to stop him. Sansa Stark would become his and the sooner, the better.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Eddard**

Eddard was striding through the corridor that led to the King’s solar, his mind spinning from being so preoccupied these days. Naught had gone as planned since he had left Winterfell but through the past sennight, the situation had considerably worsened. _That damned pyromancer,_ Ned thought before sighing in despair. That _philtre_ had seemed nothing but a fraud when he had first heard about it, a mixture more likely to be poisonous than anything else. Now though, it pained him to admit that he was starting to truly believe in its efficacy. Having seen Sansa’s reaction in the Small Hall and especially how her eyes sparkled anytime _that man_ ’s name was spoken, Eddard couldn’t possibly continue denying the obvious. His daughter was a sweet, genteel and romantic creature and she would otherwise certainly never have had any interest in a man as coarse, disfigured and vile as Sandor Clegane.

 

 _Sandor Clegane._ The mere mention of the name made Ned shudder. He had never been fond of the infamous warrior but his disposition toward him had previously been one of dislike and nothing more.  It was very different though now that his young and innocent daughter was giddier than he had ever seen her before – even more so than at learning about her betrothal to Joffrey, which was no small thing – and all because of that brute. She tried to keep a straight face when he was around, still Ned had noticed how she sometimes couldn’t stop herself from grinning and singing while wandering around the Hand’s tower. Yet, there were other times when her melancholy was so thick he could sense it by merely glimpsing her way. Eddard was no erudite when it came to young maidens and their feelings but one didn’t need to be to realise what was going on. She was in love with the Hound and by the old gods, the notion was infinitely worrying. He trusted Sansa to obey his orders and keep her distance but who was to say what that beast of a man would do if he ever found her alone? _It won’t happen,_ Ned repeated to himself for at least the tenth time today. His instructions had been very clear and his whole household knew to never let her leave the tower by herself.

 

As he approached the king’s solar, Eddard tried to chase the thoughts of his family’s personal problems from his mind. There were more pressing matters to deal with for now; that was the reason he had asked for a private audience with Robert. His biggest concern of all regarded the realm’s disastrous finances. _The kingdom is on the verge of bankruptcy. How can that be possible when… when…_? Ned trailed off, losing focus when his eyes fell over the dark shape of a very tall and broad man guarding the solar’s door. _What is the Hound doing here?_ he wondered, tensing at once. Was Joffrey visiting his father?

 

His back leaned against the closed door, Sandor Clegane was looking at nothing in particular and sporting a bored scowl, his thick arms folded over his chest. As he noticed Ned, he straightened his back and a faint spark of surprise passed through his eyes, yet the moment lasted but a heartbeat and he quickly regained his usual unreadable expression.

 

“Come to see the king?” the Hound asked when they were near enough. He was gazing down at him with an air that bordered on arrogance and Ned felt his hands close into tight fists and his jaw set tightly.

 

That this man could have any sort of interest in his little girl disgusted him no end. _It’s not his fault,_ Ned reluctantly reminded himself. The Hound hadn’t planned any of it either after all and had drunk the potion by accident, same as Sansa. However, thinking of one of Westeros’ most feared warriors as a _victim_ was anything but natural to Eddard and he would certainly not be able to see it as such in the event that he took advantage of his young daughter’s present weakened state. The simple idea that something so abhorrent could happen sent a cold shiver down Ned’s spine and he breathed in deeply to calm himself. Naught of the sort would unfold, he would see to that.

 

“Yes. Could you please open the door for me?” he demanded dryly.

 

“Of course,” the Hound grumbled after a moment of silence in a way that made it sound as if he had a say about whom Robert could or could not meet and hadn’t been sure he should allow him in. Unhurriedly, he moved aside and tugged the heavy door open. “The Lord Hand is here, Your Grace,” the man then announced flatly.

 

When Eddard was in, he looked around and was puzzled to find Robert sitting in an armchair alone with Jaime Lannister, who stood next to the window, impeccable in his shiny golden armour.

 

Ned glanced behind him at the shutting door before walking to his old friend. “Why is the Hound guarding you? Shouldn’t he be with your son?”

 

“Hello, Ned,” the king said gruffly. “Sit down with me and have a drink of ale,” he proposed, nodding at an empty place by his side.

 

“I don’t have time for that, Your Grace. I’m here but for a moment.”

 

“That’s a pity. You don’t realise how dull it can be sometimes being the head of the kingdom. It’s a very lonely place and I would have wished for some company today but I won’t keep you from your work,” he complained before taking a long gulp from his tankard. “Since you’ve asked though, I’ve decided to change the Hound’s duties and keep him as my personal guard for the time being. Joffrey has Meryn to watch over him instead. I’ve figured leaving Sandor Clegane with my son until an antidote to the philtre has been found could be… _awkward_ considering that… ah… your daughter-”

 

“Yes, of course,” Ned hurriedly cut him off, uneasiness flowing through him. As he said the words, his eyes darted to Jaime Lannister and he frowned at seeing the smirk the man was sporting. Did the Kingslayer know about the potion also? _Of course he does. Everyone does thanks to those gossipy footmen that were there when we performed our investigation_. “Your Grace, I came to talk to you about some very strange patterns I found in some of the realm’s legal papers,” Eddard began, eager to change subject. “I can’t help but wonder if-”

 

“Oh, Ned! Don’t bore me with that, will you? What do you think I have a small council for?” the king roared with obvious annoyance. “Tell me about Adelardus’ progress instead.”

 

At that, Ned sighed. He’d have preferred to handle his daughter’s delicate situation by himself – it was a private family matter after all. Nevertheless, Robert was the king and as such, he had the right to interfere in any affair he wished. Resigned, the man was just about to open his mouth when his eyes were caught by Jaime Lannister, whose smirk had become even more evident. “Could we please be alone in that case, Your Grace?” Eddard demanded more sharply than he had intended while eyeing the Kingslayer with irritation.

 

“Alone? But we are, aren’t we?” Robert exclaimed, brow furrowed with confusion. Then as if he had just realised they weren’t, he jumped in surprise and turned in his armchair to glance at the Kingslayer. “Oh, you’re talking about Jaime, aren’t you?” he added a little too cheerfully to Eddard’s taste. “Ned, you should know the Kingsguard have the king’s confidence. You can speak freely.”

 

Not convinced in the least, Eddard’s face winkled in distaste. “As you say, Your Grace,” he grunted before clearing his throat. “Well, I visited the pyromancer in his laboratory earlier this morning but he has not succeeded yet in finding a cure. He told me he was getting there but I doubt he was telling the truth.”

 

“He will eventually. A man that can concoct such an incredible philtre surely has the means to create almost any potion imaginable. We only need to be patient,” the king said with what sounded like both admiration and confidence in the pyromancer’s skills.

 

It was easy for Robert to be patient, Ned reflected bitterly. It wasn’t his daughter who was dreaming of the Hound just as they were speaking. Still, he kept his grousing to himself. “I truly hope you’re right. Yet, I’ll be honest and admit I do worry a lot, Your Grace. With your son’s nameday tourney approaching, who’s to say what opportunity the man might believe he could get? In a large crowd, it will be harder to keep track of Sansa. I’ve been thinking and perhaps I shouldn’t allow her to attend. I know she’d be disappointed but-”

 

“ _Not allow her_?” Robert growled, seemingly as confounded as displeased. “Ned, you can’t be serious? There’s no doubting the poor thing has been counting the days since the tourney was announced three moons ago. Besides, she’s Joffrey’s betrothed and is required to take part in his nameday celebrations. No, Ned, I won’t permit you to forbid her to go. I assure you that your worries are in vain anyhow. I’ve talked to the Hound and you can rest assured he won’t attempt anything. The man knows his place and is as obedient as the dogs of his sigil.”

 

As Robert spoke, Eddard heard some sort of muffled snort and when he raised his stare, he saw that Jaime Lannister was looking away and he could’ve swore the man was biting at his lip to repress a snigger. Ned winced and glowered at him but nonetheless decided to ignore it.

 

“I hope you’re right, Your Grace,” he spat with barely hidden anger, feeling so very weary. “I truly do.”

 

**Sansa**

 

“Let’s go to the Godswood, Jeyne. I need a change of air. Father won’t let me escape the tower by myself anymore,” Sansa complained as she admired herself in the mirror.

 

Her long tresses had been braided in a very complicated hairstyle and she wore a pale silk blue and cream gown that complemented her colouring perfectly. She was beautiful indeed and she longed to be seen by the world… and especially _him_. In the morning, a lot of men usually practiced in the yard. Who was to say they wouldn’t meet on their way? Of course, she had no intention of not following her lord father’s behest but if they met by chance, it wouldn’t be her fault, would it?

 

“I don’t mind. Still, Sansa! You need to answer my questions!” Jeyne cried. “Are you truly in love with _the Hound_?”

 

For a moment, she had sounded almost like Arya as she said his name and Sansa was annoyed for it. “Will you stop harassing me? Just because you’ve heard a couple of maids gossiping doesn’t make it true!” she lied. Sansa didn’t like hiding anything from her best friend but she knew Jeyne wouldn’t understand. After all, even Sansa herself wouldn’t have been able to conceive that any sound maiden might possibly fall for a man as unsavoury as Sandor Clegane a couple of days ago. For now, her true feelings were best kept secret.

 

“Don’t take it like that, Sansa! I do trust you, I swear it!” Jeyne hurriedly countered. Her words notwithstanding, the steward’s daughter seemed dubious. 

 

Sansa didn’t push the matter further though and even apologised for her outburst and the two girls left her room a moment later. As they travelled through the corridor they met Arya. The younger girl was swirling and jumping, all the while kicking some invisible foe. There was no saying what she was up to but Sansa didn’t care in the least to learn about it and only continued on her way. Shortly, they reached the stairs which were guarded by Jory.

 

“Going out, Lady Sansa?” he asked.

 

“Yes, Jeyne and I are going to the Godswood,” she said, unable to look him in the eyes.

 

The young man nodded in approval. “Us Northerners need to keep our faith, especially here in the South,” he stated, moving aside and opening the door for them.

 

“I agree with that. Thank you, Jory,” Sansa answered, blushing at her hypocrisy. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in the words he had said but…

 

“So, Sansa, it’s all untrue?” Jeyne murmured enthusiastically from behind her as they went down the stairs.

 

“What are you talking about?” she asked, increasing her pace. She had hoped the matter had been closed in her chamber and that they wouldn’t have to talk about her interest in the Hound anymore.

 

“The philtre!” the young commoner exclaimed, seemingly shocked that she could have forgotten their previous conversation so easily.

 

“Oh, that? Of course it’s all untrue. Do you truly believe in magic potions?” Sansa demanded, in what she hoped was a condescending tone.

 

The other girl seemed to hesitate. “Well… no, I don’t. Only, you’ve been acting so strangely for the last few days and after all that I’ve heard, I couldn’t help wondering…”

 

“Of course, I understand,” Sansa replied. “Still, don’t believe the rumours, Jeyne,” she whispered, feeling terribly soiled for the lies she promulgated.

 

They had reached the ground now and Jeyne sighed in relief while grasping Sansa’s hand, stopping her in her flight. “Please forgive me if I’ve insisted. I know I shouldn’t have doubted you, still it was hard not to with all the lies whispered in the kitchens.” Then, after a short pause, the young commoner added more seriously, “And also, your Lord Father has expressly told me to watch over you, so I’m only being careful. You’re not too mad, I hope?”

 

“No, of course not,” Sansa breathed, feeling awful.

 

Yet Jeyne seemed delighted and as they resumed their walk and passed over the yard, she kept grinning as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Sansa herself couldn’t help her gaze from darting down but it found the place almost empty. The two girls continued on their way and soon they reached the long corridor that led to the Godswood. Sansa was disappointed about not having glimpsed Sandor Clegane, still she tried to hide it as best she could and forced a smile on her lips. _It’s better this way,_ she decided. She had promised her lord father that she would stay away from him and she shouldn’t have hoped to see him in the first place.

 

Just as she was harbouring those thoughts, Sansa felt some sort of tickling at the nape of her neck and she immediately turned around to look behind her, jumping in place when she saw what had unconsciously attracted her attention. From the other side of the alley, Sandor Clegane was approaching her. Even at the distances they were at, she knew for certain it was him and although she couldn’t discern his face, by the hurried pace he had taken, the girl was almost certain he had noticed her also. For a brief instant, Sansa’s mind was completely clouded by anxiety and her body stood petrified but she thankfully rapidly shook herself.

 

“Jeyne,” she whispered frantically, seizing her friend by the arm and dragging her past the Godswood’s threshold where the Hound couldn’t see them. “Please! Listen to me. I lied! The philtre _is_ true and Sandor Clegane is coming. Please, be a friend and go somewhere else while I talk to him. Will you, _please_?” she implored, speaking so fast she was nearly out of breath when she finished.

 

Jeyne’s eyes went wide. “Sansa! I don’t understand-”

 

“It doesn’t matter. Are you my friend?” the girl demanded more pathetically than she had intended.

 

“Yes, of course! You know that, but-”

 

“Then leave me so that I can meet the Hound by myself for a few minutes.”

 

“But Sansa! Your lord father has clearly told me not to-”   

 

“I know!” Sansa admitted desperately, throwing her head back. For a moment, she was left completely speechless and on the verge of tears. Jeyne was right of course; she couldn’t disobey Father! Still, fleeing the Hound without giving him at least a word of explanation as to why she couldn’t see him seemed just as wrong to her. “I need to tell Sandor Clegane I can’t see him,” Sansa explained to her friend, lowering her stare on her again. “Give me the time to do that, at least…”

 

Jeyne dithered for an eternal instant and Sansa couldn’t stop her fist from tightening around her friend’s arm as she waited. “All right,” the girl finally conceded, clearly unsure she was making the right decision. “I’ll do it for you, Sansa, but _please_ explain afterward and most of all, don’t be long!”

 

“Oh thank you, Jeyne! I promise I won’t,” Sansa cried with relief, before pulling her inside.

 

Both girls entered the Godswood and shortly parted ways, Jeyne heading for some bushes on the side – looking behind her with worry a few times - while Sansa continued straight ahead.

 

Once she was alone, Sansa walked very slowly, certain every time she heard the wind blow in the leaves that Sandor Clegane was coming her way. Yet anytime she turned, no one was there and as the seconds passed, she was slowly beginning to wonder if she had imagined the whole thing. Her hands clutched together and trembling, Sansa was growing teary when a sudden louder noise was heard. Immediately, she swirled around and gasped at seeing the Hound enter the Godswood. The man’s stare fell on her in the same breath – his eyes growing wide for a second – but then he halted and began studying her from afar, his gaze lingering all over her body in a manner that seemed anything but chaste to Sansa.

 

With the dark, worn leather garb he wore, his long, black hair and facial burns, Sandor Clegane could easily have passed for the Stranger himself. The resemblance was intimidating to say the least; Sansa was even starting to wonder why she had been so eager to see him in the first place. _He still scares me as much as ever,_ Sansa realised, her stomach pulling into a tight knot. Still, her eyes were seemingly glued to his imposing shape, taking in every detail of his physique in utter fascination, from the impressive breadth of his shoulders to the shade of his rough skin.

 

For the space of a few heartbeats, it was as if a spell had been cast and time had been suspended but then, just as Sansa was about to truly believe it was so, the Hound smirked and began striding toward her. The girl flinched at the sight and took a step back, anxiety building in her so shockingly fast her breath got stuck in her throat. Thankfully, Sandor Clegane noticed her distress and abruptly stopped walking, leaving about two yards of space between them.

 

For a few very long seconds afterwards, both he and Sansa stayed still once more, examining each other with the same curious awe, although certainly not the same level of nervousness.

 

“Little bird,” the man rasped, his voice cutting through the fresh air of the godswood, as sharp as the longsword he wore at his hip. “I’ve been hoping to see you.”

 

 _Little bird_. He had called her so when he had escorted her after the Hand’s tourney on that seemingly faraway night. The moniker had seemed mean and derisive but now, it had lost all of its previous contemptuous connotations. She even liked it; _little bird_ … There was something overly romantic about the name.

 

Taking her silence for a rebuff, Sandor Clegane stiffened and his face twisted into a scowl. “Would you rather I leave?”

 

“No! I… I’ve been wishing to see you also,” Sansa cried without thinking. She regretted her words as soon as they left her lips, fearing that the avidity with which they had been spoken might give him false ideas about her intentions.

 

And indeed, it had, for the man’s mouth pulled into a smirk. “Really?” he asked smugly, taking a step forward.

 

Eyes grown wide, Sansa retreated slightly from him. “No, my lord! Please! Stay away! We _can’t_!”

 

“Can’t what?” the Hound grunted, halting. The burned corner of his mouth twitched a couple of times, giving away his irritation.

 

Daunted by the shortness of his temper, Sansa hesitated for an instant. Sheltered as she had been all her life, she wasn’t used to dealing with men of his sort and the roughness of his ways rendered her so very timid. “It’s my lord father. He… he doesn’t want me to… to _see you_ …” she breathed, her face blushing at the implication.

 

Sandor Clegane narrowed his eyes at her. “And why’s that?”

 

“Because… because it’s _impossible_!” she let out a little too passionately. That wasn’t good. Showing him the burning fervour that filled her heart was the last thing she should logically do if she didn’t wish to encourage him.

 

“ _Impossible_?” the Hound repeated mockingly before uttering a short, hoarse laugh. “Impossible _what_?”

 

 _Why would he be mocking me?_ Sansa wondered, feeling as if the floor had been pulled from under her feet.Was she wrong? Were the gossips all false and the Hound did not share her newborn infatuation? The idea both mortified and pained her. While their love was doomed from the start and she hadn’t had any intention of letting it blossom freely, Sansa still couldn’t bear the thought that Sandor Clegane might not yearn for it as much as she did. Furthermore, she had just unwillingly revealed herself to him with her enthusiasm which was unquestionably humiliating if he was only to make fun of her for it. Fighting not to shed tears, the girl lowered her gaze to the ground but somehow, she nevertheless found the strength to clarify her meaning – perhaps in foolish hope that she had misread his response. “You… you and I…” she said in a whisper so small it barely competed with the sound of the wind.

 

Sandor Clegane snorted at that, evidently amused. She had clearly told him there would be no future between them and therefore, Sansa didn’t have a single doubt anymore that he felt nothing for her. There was no other explanation for his attitude – after all, if the philtre had had any effect on him, he would assuredly have been dejected at learning the impossibility of any kind of relation between them. Losing the battle, the girl finally let tears well in her eyes, two of which ran down cheeks as hot as burning coal. A cool wind blew at that moment, brushing against her fiery face and drying its wetness and Sansa was thankful for the meagre solace the old gods were offering her.

 

“That’s what your father says,” the Hound’s low, husky voice interrupted her inner self-pity, his shadow reaching her face. “Still, I don’t give a buggering fuck about what’s proper or expected of me.”

 

His words sent shockwaves all over Sansa and she jerked her head up to look at him. As she did, the man crossed the last step that separated them and the girl backed off nervously, eyes wide as saucers. “What… what are you doing?” she asked, confused. She had apparently been wrong; he _did_ want her after all but that still didn’t make it right. “Leave me please!” she pleaded when he did not answer. “I told you already that it was impossible! And besides, I’m promised to another and we could never! Never…” she trailed off when her back hit the trunk of a large tree.

 

“Little bird,” Sandor Clegane whispered, seizing both her upper arms in his large hands. “You do want this also. No use denying it: I’ve seen it in your eyes. And don’t fight it either or else… or else I’ll _force it_ on you,” he threatened, bringing his face close to hers and pulling her against him.

 

Terrified and exhilarated equally, Sansa shut her eyes and moved her head away but she otherwise didn’t struggle against the hold he had on her. Anyhow, he was too strong and she could never win against him.

 

His body was as solid as iron against hers and so incredibly towering that their closeness was mostly frightening to her at that instant. _What will happen next_? the girl wondered, so flustered that she could barely calm her breathing and was growing dizzy.

 

“Careful, showing off that perfect white neck of yours, little bird,” the Hound warned.

 

Sansa’s eyes popped open at hearing his words, yet even before they could focus, the man’s lips delicately landed on the skin of her neck, warming it with his soft breath. _No! This is not right!_ she cried inwardly, outraged at her own weakness. Why wasn’t she pushing him away? And why by the Maiden wasn’t she making her unwillingness more obvious? There was naught appropriate about the caress of his mouth brushing against her throat... even though the burning trail it left over her skin was moreexquisite than anything she had ever experienced.

 

 _I have to shake myself and put a stop to this,_ the voice of reason rang in her mind but just as it did, one of Sandor Clegane’s hands cupped her cheek and gently turned her head until their faces were less than an inch from each other and even before she had a chance to process what was happening, his lips met hers, unexpectedly softly. _No!_ Sansa thought, squirming in his clutches.

 

Her resistance lasted but a split-second. Erelong, her limbs softened and her lips surrendered, becoming supple under his. While Sansa was horrified at the small amount of willpower she had, she neither had the energy to resist him nor the strength to fight the overpowering fluttering in her belly. Her knees were getting weak, so much so that she feared they might give out from under her. She felt as if she was at the edge of a precipice and that the sole anchor keeping her from falling into the emptiness below was the Hound’s brawny body and so she increasingly leaned into him, trembling in both fright and rapture.

 

Soon, Sandor Clegane’s mouth became hungrier and started nibbling at her lips, his fingers slipping to the back of her head, cradling it so very carefully. Complying, Sansa instinctively opened her mouth and moaned at feeling his tongue enter, the silkiness of the touch astounding her and slipping all coherent thoughts out of her mind. She could hardly remember why she had wished for the Hound to leave her alone anymore and had even almost forgotten the meanings of the words ‘seemly’ and ‘proper’. Something so perfect and good couldn’t really be wrong. The whole world had more chance of mistaking than of that being the case.

 

Never before had Sansa kissed and not in a million years would she have envisioned her first time to be anything like what she was currently experiencing. In her daydreams, the valorous knights she had gifted her lips to had always merely brushed their pursed mouth to hers. Their kisses had been restrained, short, as dry as paper, or in other words _boringly clean_. Sandor Clegane on the other hand, his were far from innocent, much more intimate and even somewhat… _indecent_.

 

Her reservations now naught more than a faraway memory, Sansa was keenly joining him in his depraved caress, sliding her tongue against his and delighting in the wonderful prickle it elicited in her. Of their own accord, her hands slid over the Hound’s torso to settle over his chest, very lightly. Encouraged by the gesture, the man lowered his hands to her waist and yanked her even closer, the abrupt movement waking the girl from the dreamlike state she had been in.

 

As it often is for those who awake from too sweet a dream, embarrassment assailed Sansa from the moment she realised what she had been up to. “We shouldn’t!” she breathed, turning her head aside and pushing her lithe hands against the man’s torso in a vain attempt to free herself.

 

Grunting in displeasure, Sandor Clegane stilled her with hands as sturdy as steel. “Why?” he demanded, sounding irked but also, genuinely afflicted.

 

“I’m the Hand’s daughter!” was her meek answer. Even to herself, the excuse sounded exceedingly unconvincing.

 

“You don’t want this?” the Hound hissed between his teeth, cocking his head to the side very stiffly.

 

The question was too bold, too direct. “I… I…”

 

“Say it as it is, little bird,” he spat, digging his fingers into her waist. Sansa could almost smell frustration oozing from his skin and his eyes glared down at her, dark with resentment.

 

Unable to withstand his stare, the girl lowered her face to gaze at her hands over his chest instead. “It’s not that…” she admitted against her better judgment. The passion-filled fog that had previously blinded her having partly dissipated, she was now starting to regret how easily she had surrendered. Their love would only bring trouble to the both of them and she should have used the opportunity his doubts offered to pretend she indeed _didn’t want this_ , as he had just put it. Yet, Sansa couldn’t find it in her to lie to him. “I need to go back to my room,” she said in a shivering whisper, hoping that a change of subject might be enough to end the nerve-racking moment.

 

The Hound was breathing heavily but her excuse seemed to quell the bourgeoning wrath she had sensed in him. One of his hands moved from her waist to her jaw and raised her face to make her to look at him. “But you’ll see me again, won’t you?” he asked in that gravelly voice he had. He sounded sure of himself but there was some sort of pleading hint in his tone that nearly broke her heart.

 

 _It’s impossible,_ Sansa reminded herself, biting at her lip. She couldn’t agree to something so unseemly. How could she, when she was betrothed to the king’s son and of far higher birth than him? Their association was simply inconceivable!

 

Still, while her mind thought one thing, her heart compelled her to do another and she heard herself answer the one thing she should never have. “Yes… Yes, I promise it. I’ll find a way to meet you.”

 

At that, Sandor Clegane’s eyes sparkled and he once more pressed his lips to hers. Sansa briefly melted in his arms but she shortly pushed her hands against his chest. “I need to go. Please, let me,” she implored. As much as his kisses were intoxicating, guilt at having disregarded her lord father’s very clear directions was now starting to arise in the back of her head and it filled Sansa with a sudden and overwhelming dread. 

 

“All right,” the Hound reluctantly conceded, slightly loosening his hold on her. “But when? When will I see you again?”

 

The urgency of the question and especially its practical aspect only added to the girl’s building awareness that she had gotten herself into something much more risky and dangerous than she had ever done in all her life. She was engulfing herself in a mess she would surely never manage to extricate herself from unsoiled if she didn’t act immediately. For a heartbeat or two, she was completely lost – vacillating between two completely opposite answers - but then, she went for the only truly conceivable one. “Soon… Still, I can’t say when exactly.”

 

“ _Soon_ ,” Sandor Clegane repeated, obviously displeased by the vagueness of her response. Exhaling loudly, the man’s face pulled into a scowl, his back becoming taut.

 

Sansa had not expected for him to react so poorly and his disappointment had the same effect on her as a whip cracking at her face. “Please be understanding!” she hurried to add, eager to be in his good graces again.  “It’s hard to predict when all my movements are watched so closely by my father. I will come here – to the godswood - as often as I can. You’ll be able to find me then…”

 

For a moment, she was afraid the Hound would complain again, however he sighed, his lips curling into a faint, wry smile. “I guess this will have to do,” he rasped without much enthusiasm. “All right then. From now on, I’ll be coming to the godswood as often as if I were a bloody Northerner looking for a favour from his gods. Still, little bird, I hope that I’ll be seeing you more frequently than any man does those bastards.”

 

“You will,” Sansa heard herself say even before she had a chance to think it over. She had never been so much as half as unreasonable as she had been since entering the godswood but she tried to chase the idea away for now. _I’ll worry about it later._

 

Growling in satisfaction, Sandor Clegane tightened the circle of his fingers around her waist and pressed her against him. “Now, do I get one last sweet kiss before I leave?” he whispered longingly against her lips.

 

Sansa couldn’t refuse him. She was far too bewitched to resist but at the same time, too intimidated by his commanding presence to refuse. Submissively, she craned her neck and opened her lips very slightly. They kissed but thankfully, the Hound himself promptly left her mouth.

 

“I’m going first. Stay here a while longer, or else anyone seeing us leave together might come to the wrong conclusion… or the right, depending,” he scoffed before striding away from her as abruptly as a gust of wind.

 

Sansa watched him as he went away and a moment later she was the sole person in the godswood, feeling so lonesome her core ached.

 

 _We kissed,_ she thought touching her lips with delicate fingers, totally bewildered. How had she ever let that happen? Sansa had never disobeyed Father before and the idea that she just had to an extent that surpassed by far even Arya’s worst misbehaviour distressed her no end. At the same time, there was no way she regretted the most intense moment of her existence. If she had believed she loved Sandor Clegane throughout the past days, it had been but an illusion for her feelings for him were now painfully stronger, as gigantic as the sky above her head.

 

“Sansa!” a small voice came from the bushes.

 

The sound taking her by surprise, Sansa jumped and turned around to see Jeyne running her way. Her eyes grew wide; she had somehow completely forgotten that she wasn’t truly alone.

 

“You kissed the Hound! You let the Hound kiss you!” Jeyne was crying out, apparently barely believing her own words.

 

“Jeyne! You spied on us?” Sansa answered, as outraged as she was abashed. “How could you?”

 

“No Sansa! How could _you_? It’s you who kissed him!” the young commoner retorted, sounding madder than she had ever seen her. “I was told by your lord father to watch over you. He gave me very specific instructions to never leave you alone when we go out of the tower and most of all, to never – _ever_! – permit you to have any contact with the Hound and _I failed_!” she almost screamed in a mix of torment and horror.

 

Rendered speechless by her friend’s reaction, Sansa stared at her dumbly, feeling suddenly extremely remorseful not to have considered the risks she had been taking on her behalf and the trouble she might now be in by her actions.

 

“You lied to me! You promised me naught would happen and that you would only tell him you couldn’t see him but you didn’t, did you?” Jeyne continued, her hands fisted into tight balls over her hips.

 

She was right of course; Sansa hadn’t kept her promise and yet looking back, she wasn’t at all certain she might possibly have succeeded even if she had tried twice as hard.

 

“Jeyne, please! You don’t understand! I-”

 

“I don’t _understand_? How can that be when I saw you smooching him like he was some handsome knight? I’m not stupid you know!”

 

“Yes, of course! And I’m not denying what I did either but please, listen to me!” Sansa cried, grabbing her friend by the sleeves and clutching at them desperately. “You _can’t_ denounce us! I love him like I’ve never loved anyone before in my life. If you do it, I don’t know what I will do…”

 

“But Sansa, what about Joffrey?”

 

“I don’t love him!” Sansa exclaimed, offended at herself for having ever believed she did.

 

“And yet not only a sennight ago you were telling me about the undying passion you had for him!”

 

“I didn’t know then what I know now! Believe me Jeyne, what I feel for Sandor Clegane is stronger than the largest and most violent storms that sweep the seas of the world.”

 

“Sansa! He’s _hideous_!” the girl pointed out in disgust. “Have you not looked upon his face?”

 

“The Hound is not ugly to me. Not anymore,” Sansa replied more dreamily than she had intended.

 

Eying her with a mix of bewilderment and concern, Jeyne relaxed a bit at that. “It’s the philtre, isn’t?”

 

Sansa sighed. “I think it is. But I don’t care. I love him now and wouldn’t wish it any other way. You need to help me, Jeyne.”

 

“But your lord father has told me to-”

 

“I know! Still, who are you friends with? Me or him?”

 

Undoubtedly sensing where she was going with this, Jeyne wavered for a second or two. “With you, of course…” she grudgingly admitted.

 

“Then you should help me!” Sansa asserted in a voice that cruelly lacked assurance.

 

Exceedingly uneasy, the other girl shifted uncomfortably. “I would but-”

 

“But you don’t value our friendship enough for that?” Sansa asked, instantly loathing herself for using such a base card. Yet what other choice did she have?

 

“I do value our friendship, Sansa!” Jeyne hastily insisted, rising to the bait. “Only I… I-”

 

“Please, Jeyne. Please!” Sansa repeated while taking her friend’s hands in hers, tears pearling at the corners of her eyes.

 

Obviously torn, Jeyne was anxiously gazing around her as if she hoped someone would come to her rescue. When no one did, she exhaled and let her head fall down in defeat. “All right, Sansa. I won’t tell,” she whispered in something not far from a lament.

 

“Oh thank you, Jeyne!” Sansa cried in utter alleviation, kissing her cheek. “You truly are a friend!”

 

“Still, Sansa,” the other girl said, raising severe eyes to her. “You need to promise me you won’t see him again.”

 

Sansa had not anticipated the demand _at all_ and her heart dropped from the moment she heard it. _Not see him again?_ she echoed inwardly, panic rising in her.  How could she hold to such an impossible request? She loved him! And the Hound loved her too! They couldn’t be parted! Besides, she had already given him her word that she would do everything in her power to meet him again. She couldn’t break yet another promise! Most of all though, after having felt Sandor Clegane’s muscular body against hers, his large hands circling her waist and kissed his demanding lips, she knew for certain that they were meant for each other. If they had both drunk the pyromancer’s love-philtre, it was because the gods had willed it so and no one – not even Father or the king himself – could argue or fight against the gods’ will.

 

Still, while Sansa was convinced of that, she easily could guess Jeyne would probably disagree with her conclusion. She really didn’t want to lie again but there was obviously no way she could tell her friend the truth at once. It would need to come one drop at a time and the best course of action for now was to let her believe what had taken place today would never happen again. “Of course, Jeyne,” Sansa murmured, looking away and feeling her cheeks flush red from the wave of shame that instantly afflicted her.

 

The other girl didn’t seem to realise the falseness of the words, for she sighed in relief. “It’s all for the best, Sansa. I can understand that this potion has some potent effect on you but as soon as a cure to your affliction is found, you’ll be as horrified as anyone else at the thought of kissing the Hound.” Then, smiling kindly, Jeyne added reassuringly, “but I won’t tell anyone it has ever happened so don’t you worry about it.”

 

 _Worry about it,_ Sansa repeated derisively in her mind. The only _worry_ she had at the moment was that anyone might ever find a remedy to the wonderful love she felt.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Here’s a new chapter which one I hope you’ll all enjoy. If you do, please do comment. Without feedbacks, I’m left in the dark and therefore, it’s really hard for me to know if I’m doing something right and achieving my goal of entertaining you. :)
> 
> I did receive really nice comments from a number of people since starting this story though and to you all, I’m saying a BIG thank you! You don’t know how much it means to me!!! :D

**Sandor**

A couple of squires were fixing Sandor’s armour onto him in the tent he shared with a few of the most important men-at-arms of the king. The lads were scared out of their wits to approach him– as usual – but the man didn’t waste a moment of his time on teasing them as he often liked to do. No, his mind was far too absorbed by the little bird – Sansa – who he would almost certainly get to see very soon. Her sweet lips against his, her soft body at his mercy… the prospect was mouth-watering to say the least. Lately, he seemingly couldn’t stop himself from daydreaming every bloody second of his damned life about how fucking good she would feel in his arms. It was more than a little overwhelming for an uncaring bastard such as he had always been - especially since they had spent less than an hour altogether by each other’s side since the philtre. Somehow, it was as if in the blink of an eye, the girl’s presence had grown as important to Sandor as the air he breathed and therefore, he longed to be with her in a visceral manner that defied all logic and didn’t have anything to do with the more accustomed straightforward desire he had felt for other females in the past.

 

“Not so buggering tight! I still need to breathe, don’t I?” Sandor hissed at the squires as they buckled one of his breastplate’s straps in the wrong hole. He had forgotten about them, so taken by his reflections.

 

“Sorry, ser!” one of them croaked, loosening the strap with trembling hands.

 

“I’m no fucking _ser_!” Sandor snarled, pointing his finger at the lad’s face. Notwithstanding his distaste at being called as such, he let it go as easily as that and only grunted a few curses while waving for them to continue. He had a far more interesting preoccupation at the moment than making green boys shit in their breeches.

 

Aye, the little bird. She had told him she would find a way to wander through the tents and rejoin him today. The girl was watched very closely – that was true – still it obviously wasn’t nearly enough since the two of them had managed to evade the weak obstacles the Lord Hand believed he had placed between them twice already. It hadn’t been very difficult either since that little mousy commoner friend Sansa had could be used as a cover for their secret meetings in the godswood. While it was evident the latter resented her involvement, she still did as she was bid and allowed them to spend some time alone.

 

Sandor would never be thankful to a servant for doing her job and listening to her lady, yet there was no denying they depended on the girl’s good will. Whether he found the notion more worrying or infuriating was still a mystery to him, however resolving it wouldn’t change the bloody facts. They _did_ need her help. Indeed, as the little bird wasn’t permitted to cross the Tower of the Hand’s threshold by herself, an accomplice among her household members was essential if they wished her to get out of the damned place once in a while.

 

Relying upon anyone wasn’t something Sandor enjoyed in the least though. The mere thought of it made him grind his teeth and scratch his neck in annoyance, still the prospect of being parted from Sansa for too long appealed to him even less. Finding a way to secure her friend’s loyalty was thereby a priority; friendship wasn’t something anyone should count on, after all. Who was to say that the little commoner wouldn’t betray them the moment she saw some advantage to it? Sandor needed to think of an incentive that would bind her to their cause and soon. Threatening her had been his first idea but he had quickly gathered doing so would most likely lead to catastrophe. No, the best strategy would be to bribe her, perhaps by buying her some of those useless trinkets women loved so much. Would that be enough though?

 

After their first encounter in the godswood, Sandor had thirsted for the little bird’s lithe body against his so fucking strongly that he had been ready to take the Tower of the Hand by storm – no matter if it had meant his buggering lifeblood. It hadn’t come to that thankfully. Just as he was growing as dangerously restless as a rabid dog kept in a cage for weeks, Sansa had been in the godswood at one of his all too frequent visits to the deserted place.

 

Dressed in an apple-green gown with white lace artfully stitched here and there, the little bird had been kneeling before a tree, praying for a purpose known solely by her. She had been breathtaking in the afternoon light - perfect in every sense of the buggering word, even though her long red locks were braided in one of those ridiculous hairstyles all the presumptuous ladies of the court believed to be the height of taste.

 

As Sandor had approached, the little bird had turned her beautiful pale face toward him and parted her luscious lips to utter a gasp of surprise. There was no denying she was still scared of him. He could smell her fear even from where he was, see it shine in the depths of her blue eyes, yet ever since the potion, Sandor could also sense the curiosity he triggered in her and how irresistibly attracted she was to him.

 

The idea that a maiden of her quality and birth could be _attracted_ to his likes was laughable of course. Without the love-philtre, there was no doubting she would never in a million years have felt anything but disgust toward him. Still, Sandor couldn’t have cared less. Aye, her interest in him had been caused _artificially_ but where the fuck was the problem in that? After all, the only buggering detail that should ever matter in any affair – whatever the scale - was its bloody end result and given the one he was getting here, Sandor would’ve needed to be either a bugger or a halfwit to complain.

 

“Little bird, you’re finally here,” he had rasped when he was near enough, his gaze lingering all over her. “I was starting to think you’d tricked me and would never show up.”

 

Still on the floor with her skirts spread around her, Sansa had flinched, her eyes grown wide. “Why would I do something so awful?” she had breathed so very softly, seemingly genuinely horrified at the proposition.

 

Sandor had uttered a short laugh at that, delighted by her fetching naivety and incomparable sweetness. Her cheeks colouring a pretty shade of pink, the little bird had stood up then and the man had noticed for the first time that her servant friend was there also, kneeling by her side. When his gaze had fallen on her, the young commoner had jumped and averted her stare uneasily but Sandor had had time enough to read the distaste in her eyes. The man had snorted at that. As if he gave a single shit about what a plain little servant thought of him.

 

“Jeyne, could you please leave us?” the little bird had demanded more politely than was necessary.

 

Her friend had eyed her with a pleading expression on her face - as if she hoped she would change her mind and send Sandor away instead - but then when naught of the sort happened, she had turned around and scurried away.

 

The man had followed her with his gaze, grunting in satisfaction once she had vanished into the bushes. “You know I’ve been coming here as often as a fucking devout,” he had muttered, a smirk on his lips, before taking a few steps toward Sansa.

 

“Oh, you have,” she had whispered in astonishment, as if she was taken aback by his statement. That was absurd. What man wouldn’t do all he could to get near such a striking creature?

 

After that, it had been a question of seconds before Sandor grabbed her by the waist, kissed her throat and began devouring her lips with all the hunger in the world. The girl had squirmed slightly at first but he had easily stilled her with relentless hands and gentle words and before long, she had been soft and purring in his arms. There was no way Sandor knew for how long they kissed afterwards but when at one point they had grown too breathless to continue, they parted and exchanged a few words for a time, their bodies flush and his arms around her. It was a real mercy he had had the quick wits to tell her about his tent’s location at the upcoming tourney during that pause. The little bird had smiled and promised that she would find him. Shortly thereafter, they had resumed kissing with even more heat than previously, yet just as Sandor was getting where he truly longed to get and caressed the delicious curve that led to her sweet teats, Sansa had fled from his grasp - looking terrified - and told him as she hurried to the door that she would be missed soon if she didn’t get back to the Hand’s Tower _immediately_.

 

Too bad she always had to go back to her nest. There would never be anything easy with her it seemed. The damned girl would resist him every step of the way until he finally got all he yearned for from her – if the glorious day ever happened at all. The prize was worth the battle though and Sandor would give all he had in him even if it meant he would only ever get a tenth of what she had to offer. He had no other fucking choice as it was anyway; he wanted her far too much to forget about her and truly focus his attention on anything else.

 

And so here he was, in his shared tent with two stupid squires, dreaming of the Hand’s daughter like some lovesick fool. _A lovesick fool,_ Sandor sneered. Only a fortnight ago, he’d never have believed he might one day come to think of himself as such.

 

“It’s all done, se… ah…” one of the squires meekly started to announce.

 

“No need for titles with me, boy,” Sandor rasped, rising so fast the lad nearly lost his balance.

 

Moving away, the man went out of the tent and began walking across the field. He had told Sansa where his quarters would approximately be and for that reason, he didn’t wish to go too far. Still, as the glade was quickly turning into some sort of buggering carnival, finding a place where he could meet her unseen was crucial. It wasn’t evident though with all those knights, squires, children, couples of all ages and merchants trying to sell their baubles seemingly filling every single yard of the place. Even moving around at a regular pace was rapidly becoming impossible. Still, Sandor didn’t have any other option but to continue searching and thus he kept on strolling about, his mood darkening with every step he took.

 

 _Bugger that! I won’t find any fucking secret sanctuary in this bloody circus!_ he raged to himself after a few minutes of sweeping his gaze over the increasingly dense press of people.  There was no use trying to deny it; he’d need to meet the little bird in the open with all the associated dangers. The idea instantly sent his blood boiling. Cursing under his breath, Sandor halted as soon as the realisation hit him, the abruptness of the movement surprising the two youngsters that had been walking behind him, both of whom crashed into his back. Sandor barely felt them and only had time to glimpse their terrified expressions before they fled as fast as if they had come face to face with the Stranger himself. _Cowards,_ the man thought with a mix of contempt and disgust while glaring at every passer-by he saw but then just as he had lost all hope, he caught sight of what he had had been looking for.

 

At some distance before him, three tents stood in a tight circle and although they weren’t directly touching, they were near enough that people walking by wouldn’t notice if a couple in need of privacy stood at their centre. _At least, hopefully,_ Sandor thought once he was near enough to better inspect the setting. It wasn’t great, of course, but it was a far cry better than kissing Sansa before hundreds of witnesses - or even worse, not to kiss her at all. 

 

Mildly satisfied, Sandor turned his back to the tents and began waiting, arms folded over his chest while distractedly watching the crowd that surrounded him. Nearby, a group of children were following the acrobatic feats of a man who juggled while walking in a circle on a pair of stilts with avid eyes. Behind them, a few squires were courting two plump commoner girls, who were giggling while eating candied apples. By their side, an old woman was reading the lines of a young noblewoman’s hand, a knight waiting by their sides, all smiles. What bullshit was the hag feeding them? That they’d become rich? That he’d win a title and lands? That they’d soon wed and have a child? The latter was more likely of course, still Sandor couldn’t help but feel contempt for both the couple and the old seer – oh, and all the rest of the pathetic flock that surrounded them while he was at it. There was only one person he cared about and she wasn’t here for now. _Where is she?_ he wondered, suddenly impatient. Had the little bird changed her mind and decided she’s rather be a _good girl_ and listen to her damned father after all? Or perhaps was she unable to leave the king’s box? There was no use in torturing himself over these questions – she would come or she wouldn’t, no matter what he did - and therefore, Sandor tried to empty his mind of any thoughts but his attempt wasn’t met with much success.

 

A golden-skinned couple with dark hair, probably from Dorne, was swirling together in a licentious dance that made the fascinated maidens of their audience blush and wiggle uncomfortably when Sandor’s attention suddenly got attracted elsewhere.

 

“My lord,” a soft voice discreetly called.

 

The sound was barely more than a whisper in the din but Sandor heard it well enough. His pulse increasing slightly, he jerked his head around to see the little bird with her servant friend standing a few yards from him and pretending to watch the dancers. At the sight, the man’s mouth almost pulled into a smile, however he thankfully put a stop to that before it had a chance of happening. No one needed to note how glad he was to see Sansa or even that he had spotted her at all. Gazing away with a scowl on his face, he nonchalantly nodded toward the passage between the tents, hoping that his brief loss of composure hadn’t been caught by anyone.

 

The two girls understood his meaning and furtively glanced behind them, exchanging a few hushed words before they both walked to the tents and disappeared into their centre. As they did, Sandor scanned the crowd to make sure no one was peering their way and once he was confident, he followed in their steps.

 

It wasn’t such a good hiding place, the man had to admit once he had entered. He could glimpse what was going on outside standing in its middle and it was a given anyone curious enough would easily guess something was up between the tents. Nevertheless, what other buggering options did he have? None, of course.

 

Sighing in annoyance at his lack of resources, Sandor lowered his stare onto Sansa, his concern dissolving in an eye blink when he saw the vision that awaited him. Under the sunbeams, the little bird was simply stunning. She looked the stuff the bloody songs were made of, so fucking beautiful she didn’t even seem real. Her loose hair shone a vibrant shade of red and her pale skin glowed as if it was carved from ivory and the man suddenly wished he could admire her wholly, with no clothes obstructing the way.

 

Shifting nervously, the little bird was gazing at him so very shyly, still her big blue eyes were sparkling with undeniable excitement. Sandor felt his lips curl into a wicked half-grin. Their minutes together were so few; would she mind if he seized her by the waist and kissed her right away? _There’s only one way to find out,_ he mused, taking a step forward, yet just as he was about to execute his plan, Sandor remembered, wincing, that her little friend was there by her side. That one was so bloody easy to forget about. Obviously both terrified and ill-at-ease, she was staring at her feet, probably wishing she could turn into mist. _You and I both, girl._

 

Looking at them, it was hard to believe the two girls were of an age. Albeit Sansa was still very young and most likely not done growing, she nevertheless was obviously not a child anymore, unlike her skinny and awkward looking friend - any man with enough strength to lift it up could see that, clear as day. There was no doubting the plain little servant was envious of Sansa’s many _charms_. What girl wouldn’t be, after all, when condemned to always pass for the ugly one? No male would ever give her any mind as long as she was by the little bird’s side - that was fucking certain.

 

“You, girl,” Sandor rasped, poking at the servant girl’s shoulder.

 

At that, she flinched and raised fearful eyes to him. “Y… yes?”

 

“Leave us, will you? You’re not needed here,” Sandor spat. The girl didn’t argue and nodded anxiously but just as she was turning around to leave, the man called her back. “Wait,” he said, remembering his earlier reflections. From his pouch, he fished out a silver stag and flipped it in her direction. The girl barely managed to catch it in flight. “Take that and go buy yourself some candies, a mug of mulled wine or whatever else you like; I don’t bloody care. All I ask is that you stay out of the view of anyone that might know you’re supposed to be with Sansa. Perhaps you could go hide in the tent of one of those seers and ask for your future to be foretold. You females like paying to hear the lies of those thieves, am I right? I’ve seen it done again and again and you’re surely no different.”

 

“Y… yes, my lord,” the girl answered, staring at the stag in her hand with disbelieving eyes.

 

She had never owned so much in all her life and it showed. _Good_ , Sandor thought contentedly. As he had surmised earlier, using the little servant’s greed was indeed the right strategy. He could afford to give her a stag every now and then if it meant she would keep her mouth shut in hope of more.

 

“Thank you,” she said, glancing diffidently at Sandor when she finally managed to take her eyes from her silver stag.

 

“No need for that, just go,” Sandor urged her, laying a hand on her shoulder and pushing her away.

 

“Thank you so much, Jeyne!” the little bird exclaimed. “Please, meet me here in about an hour.”

 

“Yes, Sansa,” the servant girl replied as she dropped out of Sandor’s sight.

 

 _Finally_ , he thought, returning his gaze to the little bird. He couldn’t wait to kiss her at last.

 

“Are you going to joust today?” she asked before he could make his move.

 

“Why do you think I have my armour on?” Sandor replied, his lips pulling into a mocking smirk.

 

“Oh,” Sansa whispered, slightly taken aback. “It’s true, I didn’t think-”

 

“No, you didn’t,” he rasped, seizing her waist with both hands. She was so slim it fitted in the circle of his fingers. “Little bird, I’ve been missing you so buggering much,” the man muttered, yanking her against him and burying his face in her hair. When had he become so damned pathetic as to say things like that? _The hells with that. I don’t bloody care._

The girl squeaked and tensed for a moment but she quickly became tender in his clutches and exhaled softly. “I… I did too,” she said, hesitant and shy. _So bloody sweet._

 

Her scent was that of a fresh spring, purer than anything he’d ever smelled. “Mmmm,” Sandor breathed, slipping his mouth against her neck and kissing the perfect whiteness he found there. His hand moved upward to cup one of her cheeks while his lips trailed over the other until they got to her mouth and began nibbling at its delectable plumpness. The girl didn’t resist and even opened her lips for him, allowing their tongues to meet, softly at first, more hungrily as it went on.

 

No matter how exhilarating the moment, Sandor shortly remembered where they were and withdrew his mouth from hers. “Little bird, we need get as far from the centre as we can,” he said, pushing her against the rough cloth of the nearest tent and using the pretext to press himself even more tightly against her.

 

“Of course,” she murmured, anxiously glancing around them as if she was only just growing conscious of where they were.

 

The poor little thing. She had probably dreamed of being dragged to more enchanting places by her fancied suitors before realising she’d get a dog instead. Oh well, the girl still seemed willing enough, no matter how inappropriate the setting and the man and thus, there was no reason to deprive himself of tasting her lips again.

 

Sandor was about to do just that when he was suddenly stopped by a pair of delicate hands pushing against his breastplate. Of course, he could’ve easily shoved them off by sheer force, yet the girl still needed to believe she had a choice where they were concerned.

 

“Wait. I… I have something for you,” she said when he met her gaze.

 

Fixing her with questioning eyes, Sandor kept silent and waited for her to continue.

 

The little bird’s cheeks had coloured a deep shade of pink and she seemed to hesitate for a moment but then, she backed away from him as much as she could with the space she had left, her body pushing into the coarse fabric of the tent as she untied a long ribbon from her wrist. “I would really love you to… to carry my favour for the tourney today,” she whispered, eyes downcast and lips curled into a timid smile.

 

 _A favour?_ Sandor had never had any of those, never dreamed to and hadn’t cared. He was no pretty knight after all but a ruthless killer… yet from Sansa, the prospect was temping, all too tempting. And there was no bloody reason he should refuse her either.

 

“Of course I’ll fight for you, little bird,” he told her lowly, narrowing his eyes at her. “And I’ll think of you as I send those bastards onto the dusty ground - where they belong.”

 

As he said the words, Sansa raised her gaze to him, eyes gleaming with happiness. She seemed truly relieved, as if she had feared he would refuse. “You will?” she asked, apparently barely believing it.

 

“Aye, little bird, I will but you need to put your ribbon somewhere it won’t be seen by anyone.” Sandor paused to think. “Under my pauldron. Here,” he instructed, pushing the steel piece away so that she could access his upper arm.

 

Glowing with joy, Sansa brought her dainty fingers to the space he offered her and hurriedly began to fasten the fine pink piece of silk around his arm. _Pink_ , Sandor thought, a sneer uncontrollably reaching his mouth. That was no colour meant to go on a man like him. Yet, it was the same shade her cheeks could so easily take and the same hue as her lips... Somehow, the notion was almost stirring.

 

“It’s not too tight?” the little bird asked, looking at him.

 

Sandor snorted at that. “How could it ever be _too tight_?” he murmured, grasping a tendril of her hair and rolling it between his fingers. It was so silky to the touch. “I like your hair like that.”

 

“You do?” she asked, seemingly delighted. “I’ve left it loose for you. You told me you preferred it like that.”

 

“Aye. No need for artifice with you. You’re too beautiful for that; natural suits you best.”

 

“Thank you, my lord,” the little bird breathed, her grin broader than he had ever seen it.

 

“None of that with me: I’m only relating the truth. And besides, I’m no lord. Especially not to _you_.”

 

As if in awe, the little bird’s mouth opened very slightly and the man read it as a sign her lips were begging to be kissed. It was more an order really, and therefore he brought his face near hers, ready to feed on her delicious skin –

 

“What the _hells_ is going on here?” a voice came from behind them.

 

Sandor jerked his head around, his whole body stiffening in less than a heartbeat. Then, even before he had a chance of glimpsing the intruder, he heard a snigger he knew all too well. _Fucking Kingslayer,_ he cursed, feeling his mouth twitch. The haughty bastard was slowly walking toward them, a complacent smile on his handsome face.

“You know what, Sandor? I had somehow already guessed it might be you,” Jaime Lannister declared, halting only a step from them. “Instinct probably… or perhaps, the grating sound of your voice which I could hear from my seat, it’s hard to say,” he added, his smile evolving into a wide grin.

 

The little bird’s face had turned almost as red as her hair and Sandor could feel her shivering against him. The awareness of how scared she was only added to his bourgeoning anger but he kept still and waited to see what the Kingslayer wanted.

 

The bugger was either oblivious to the reactions he was eliciting or more likely, enjoying every second of it for he continued his vain monologue at the same unbearably slow pace. “I was peacefully resting in my tent, trying to gather my strength for the joust, but kept being disturbed by movements I could very clearly see against the fabric of one of its walls,” he recounted,feigning outrage. “Understand me, I _had_ to go find out what was the matter.” After that, Jaime grinned and resumed laughing. “You naughty Hound. Haven’t you any better place to bring your lady love to?”

 

“Go fuck yourself, Kingslayer,” Sandor snarled.

 

“Careful with Lady Sansa’s pure ears! She’s too fine a lady to hear such vile words,” Jaime scolded him with a smirk. 

 

Sandor didn’t share his amusement in the least. He turned from Sansa to face the Kingslayer completely and took a step toward him. “Listen, you bugger. I don’t have time to waste so _spit it out_. What the _fuck_ do you want from me?”

 

Jaime retreated slightly from him and feigned surprise. “Nothing, of course!” he exclaimed but then, he seemed to change his mind. “Although, I do have an offer for you if you’d like. You and Lady Sansa really need to find some more suitable place to… to get to _know_ each other. I offer you my tent.”

 

Sandor rolled his eyes. “Forget it,” he hissed between his teeth.

 

“But why? I’m completely rested now and as good as new. I’m not sharing my tent with anyone and it would be a pity if no one took advantage of the place. I’ll tell my squires not to go in and no one will know you’re there but me.”

 

“Why should I trust you?” Sandor rasped, studying the other man’s expression and trying to read any deception.

 

“Why shouldn’t you? Did I ever stab you in the back before?”

 

Sandor opened his mouth to speak but as much as he wished he could, finding any occasion the Kingslayer had betrayed his trust proved impossible.

 

“Come, Sandor. Be sensible. You’ll be much more comfortable in there.”

 

For an instant, Sandor wavered. He glanced behind him to see Sansa looking at him, totally petrified. _She doesn’t like the idea_ , he mused. Yet, Jaime had already caught them and could very well denounce them as it was already. And besides, the bastard did have a point…

 

“All right then, Kingslayer. I don’t know what you have to gain in this but I’ll take your offer anyhow. You had better not play me though and tell anyone or else, I’ll beat you up so badly, you’ll never get to fuck again.”

 

“No need for threatening me. You’re really not being very fair, are you? Oh well. Follow me,” the man said, shaking his head and waving for him to follow.

 

At that, Sandor gazed back at the little bird and gently grabbed her by the upper arm. “Come.”

 

The poor girl looked terrified but Sandor nonetheless brought her in front on him. He’d have time enough to reassure her once they were alone.

 

An instant later, they had exited their little hiding place but Sandor kept Sansa well hidden before him and pushed her into the tent’s entrance, which Jaime had already opened for them. Once she was in, he laid eyes on the Kingslayer. “No one will enter while we’re in there,” he commanded more than he asked, eying the man menacingly.

 

“I give you my word. On my honour,” Jaime said, his right hand settled over his heart.

 

Sandor snorted. “For what it’s worth.”

 

“Oh, you’re really misjudging me here,” Jaime sighed, sounding genuinely irked. The moment lasted but a split second though, for he quickly regained his usual smirk. “Have fun, Sandor,” he said, laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Although, try to leave her a maiden at least, all right?”

 

Sending him one last glare, Sandor bent slightly and entered the dimness of the tent, the door slapping shut behind him.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the wait but I’ve been pretty busy lately and sadly, I had to put this fic aside quite a few times. Hopefully you’ll all enjoy this new chapter and if you do, please do leave a comment. J It would make me so very happy!
> 
> ETA: I delete this chapter by accident and had to put it back! D: I'm so sorry for those who commented previously!!! :(

**Sandor**

 

When he got inside the tent, Sandor swept his gaze around. It was very quiet in here and extremely luxurious indeed for an installation that would be dismantled perhaps as soon as tomorrow. There were rugs on the floor, nice embroiled fabric on the walls, a couple of cushioned armchairs and a large table with bowls of fruit settled in its centre, the whole lit by the peaceful glow of a few candelabras. It was indeed a pleasant place to spend some time alone with a _lady_ , Sandor had to admit. It was even better than his buggering chamber – and that by far.

 

“Do you think he’ll tell?” the little bird suddenly demanded.

 

“Tell?” Sandor repeated. He had been distracted by his analysis of the place but his gaze darted to her as soon as she spoke. She was standing near an armchair and was obviously distressed judging by the stiffness of her limbs and the thin line her usually luscious mouth had become.

 

“My father!” she specified, hugging herself.

 

“No, he won’t, little bird. I’m not terribly fond of the Kingslayer but I trust he’ll keep silent,” Sandor rasped, wincing at the bad taste defending the man left in his mouth.

 

“Good,” Sansa breathed before giving him a faint, faltering smile. It was evident she was not truly convinced and still far from at ease.

 

Somehow, her agitation was endearing to Sandor and brought a smirk to his face. “Little bird, stop worrying and relax,” he began, walking toward her. “We’re better off here than we were moments ago between those buggering tents. You can’t deny that, can you?”

 

“I… I like it in here, of course. It’s just that…” she hesitated for a moment but then she exhaled nervously and continued. “ _Ser Jaime_ , I don’t know him! I’m not sure he’s a friend of my lord father either…”

 

Sandor snorted at that. “You’re more perspicacious than you let it seem. There’s indeed no lost love between your father and the Kingslayer but, little bird, I think that’s _exactly_ why the bugger is being so bloody generous with us,” he explained, sliding a hand over the side of the girl’s waist until his fingers had reached the small of her back.

 

Her eyes became as round as saucers. “But why would he want to do that then?” she asked, obviously confounded.

 

A mocking grin curling his lips, Sandor brought his face near hers. “You think your father wants us spending time together – _alone_?”

 

“Oh,” Sansa whispered, eyes shining with understanding.

 

The man’s chest was shaking with a calm snigger but the little bird didn’t seem to share his mirth for she lowered her gaze, the shame she felt as clear as day.

 

The poor little thing, she was evidently uneasy at the notion of being so exposed and even worse, _used_ against her own father by the most obnoxious bastard there was in all the buggering Seven Kingdoms. Of course, Sandor didn’t enjoy the knowledge that he was a tool in the Kingslayer’s petty fight with Ned Stark either, yet as there were undeniable advantages to be gained in the process, there’d be no logic in spurning him so easily. The girl needed to see the wisdom in that too.

 

“Sansa, listen to me,” Sandor rasped, raising a hand under her chin to lift it up. “In the bloody impossible situation we’re in – you being the apple of your father’s eye and I, a lowly and hideous boor - we cannot turn down _any_ potential ally, no matter their motives and how fucking insufferable they might be.” As he spoke, the girl was watching him so attentively her expression almost seemed _reverent_. The shadow of a smile came to the man’s face at the absurd notion and his eyes narrowed in amusement. “Besides, we’ll meet regardless of whether the bugger helps us or not, so why refuse him? I already told you he won’t speak. Isn’t that all that counts in the end?”

 

The girl bit at her lip. “I… I guess you’re right,” she murmured.

 

“I am,” he said confidently.

 

Notwithstanding the nod she gave him, Sansa still didn’t retrieve her smile, keeping her lips set into a childish pout instead. For some reason, the view stirred Sandor’s blood so much that his ears began buzzing. He lowered his face, very slowly, simultaneously eager to feel the perfect plumpness of her mouth against his and unwilling to stop admiring her dainty features so soon. The little bird blinked a few times as if in surprise and opened her lips in a small ‘o’.

 

 _That’s too buggering much_ , Sandor thought. There was no way he could hold himself back any longer when she looked at him so fucking movingly and therefore, he kissed her straight away with no restraint whatsoever and got no resistance at all from her either. Tightening his hold around Sansa’s narrow waist, he yanked her even nearer, the moan the abrupt gesture elicited from her too sweet to be true.

 

Sandor’s cock had not been _exactly_ soft but at hearing her react so beautifully, it became as hard as the steel of his plates. He couldn’t stop his dirty mind from trying to picture how similarly she would sound while he fucked her as hard as he longed to. _No, softly,_ he corrected. She was a maiden, after all. If only he could take her right then and there - by the bloody Stranger, would it be good.

 

 _Seven hells!_ _If I’d known I’d be alone with the little bird in a buggering private tent, I would never have put on my fucking armour so damned early,_ Sandor suddenly thought regretfully.

 

Yet, he didn’t linger over the thought. After all, no matter whether he cursed himself all through the day to stop only when dawn came upon him the next morning, there would be no changing the present. Besides, he was unwilling to let anything ruin the short time they had together, no matter how he yearned to feel Sansa’s body flush against his. He needed to make the most of the moment, no matter his mistake.

 

With that in mind, Sandor buried his face in the girl’s hair and began biting gently at her neck and licking the smooth skin he found there. One of his hands was between her shoulder blades and the other spread over the small of her back, his fingers stroking the tantalising curve that led to her pert little arse. Sandor’s mind was clouded with desire – he had leered at her behind so often in the past, wondering how it would feel in his hands. The occasion was too good and without thinking more of it, he lowered his palm over one of its cheeks and grabbed it, grunting in delight at how firm and soft it was at once.

 

“Ah,” the little bird gasped, somehow managing to extricate herself from his arms in the blink of an eye and take a step back.

 

Sandor hadn’t anticipated her move at all. For an instant, he was too taken aback and didn’t react. When after a few heartbeats he shook himself and approached her again, the girl retreated faintly, looking terrified. “Little bird, what did I do?” he complained, sounding more irked than he had intended.

 

The girl seemed speechless. “I’m sorry… it’s just that I… I…” she started, eyes downcast and bringing both her hands to her mouth.

 

“You _what_?” Sandor snapped. “You didn’t like it? You don’t want me to touch you?” Then again, his tone was one of annoyance and the awareness of how impatient his words came out impelled his mouth to twitch. 

 

Sansa was apparently not blind to his irritation, for she gulped nervously. “Oh, I… I don’t know…” she replied, still not gazing at him and moving back even more.

 

Sandor didn’t want her far and therefore he took another step forward to close the gap she kept creating between them. The little bird tried to recoil again but hit and fell into the armchair that stood behind her. Once she realised she was stuck, she raised her stare to him, the dread in her eyes as obvious as the scars of his face.

 

Was the girl still so bloody frightened of him? Or was it that she solely wanted some _chaste_ love from him and was only now realising he was not one of those damned valorous knights the buggering songs were filled with? Sandor let out a snort of contempt at the notion. Naught would ever work between them if that was all she wished from him. He could never give her something as unobtainable as _that_. He simply couldn’t physically do it. It wasn’t that he solely wanted a mere fuck from her – far from it even - yet the fuck part was still _extremely important_ to him. How could he ever live without seeing her naked and coming to know the joy of burying himself in the depths of her unsoiled cunt? The concept that she might not allow him to do just that at one point was simply unimaginable to him and he didn’t dare try to conjure what he might do if she never gave him the right to. It was best not to anyhow. He genuinely didn’t want to hurt her after all.

 

From her new place on the armchair, the little bird was barely gazing at him. She was truly petrified and it was a bloody given. A sigh escaped Sandor’s mouth. While he did feel slightly guilty for putting her in such a state, it didn’t stop him from being mostly exasperated by her lack of co-operation.

 

On the other hand, there was no denying that with his armour on, he was highly limited. Perhaps the best course of action was to play his cards right while nothing serious was possible so that he might convince her of his _good intentions_ and sway her to leave him more space in the future when the setting was more promising.

 

“Little bird,” he murmured, forcing his voice to sound calmer than he felt and kneeling before her. “No need to fear me. I don’t want any ill from you.”

 

As he said the words, Sansa brought her stare to his at last.

 

That was a start. Encouraged, he took her hands in his and continued. “You can’t always flee from me whenever I cross a barrier with you. You did it twice already when we met in the godswood and while I couldn’t say much then, you can’t always do _that_. Don’t you know how much I _want_ you?”

 

 _Seven Hells,_ the man mused at feeling her hands tense in his and seeing how quickly she averted her eyes. Perhaps his words had been a little too bold. She _was_ a bloody highborn maiden. Sandor’s pulse quickened as soon as he realised his misstep and he cursed himself for being so fucking weak where she was concerned. Even deadly battles had never affected him so much as talking to this helpless maiden did. The notion was plainly _ridiculous_ , yet persevering was the only damned way he could go.

 

“Sansa, listen to me,” he began as placidly as he could. “I’m not going to force you into anything you’re not ready for.” Could he truly hold on to such a crazy promise? He had spoken faster than he could think. “Still, I need to spend more than a few minutes here and there with you. You’re not used to being intimate with a man – we both know that. Yet here we are, both having drunk that damned potion and I need to see you, to feel you… bugger that – I just fucking need you _all_!” As soon as he had uttered them, Sandor regretted his words – realising his outburst all too late. Angered at himself, he exhaled deeply, jaw clenching and unclenching, and lowered his stare to the girl’s lap.

 

For a few heartbeats afterwards, silence enveloped them but just as he was truly starting to believe he had destroyed all his chances for good, the little bird spoke. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I do… want to spend more time with you also…”

 

“Really?” he demanded while jerking his head up, suddenly hopeful. Without even willing it, both his hands went to her waist to circle its width.

 

The girl stiffened slightly but didn’t fight against his renewed hold. “Yes, but as you said… I’m so unused to anything like _that_ ,” she explained uneasily, blushing deeply and looking away.

 

The shyness of her response brought a smirk to Sandor’s lips. “But you don’t regret the philtre, do you?” he asked quietly, tightening his clutches and narrowing his eyes at her.

 

“Oh, but of course not!” she cried.

 

The man had half a mind to kiss her right away for such a positive response, yet while they were on the subject it would’ve been foolish not to use the opportunity to question her about a few details that had kept bothering him lately.

 

“Little bird,” Sandor began, eyes down and massaging her waist. “I’ve heard the pyromancer is working on an antidote for the philtre… Would you drink it?” As he finished his sentence, he raised his stare to her, struggling to hide the wrath he felt at the prospect of anyone finding a way to destroy her newborn interest in him.

 

“Never! I would rather die of thirst!” Sansa exclaimed before he could close his mouth. Her pretty eyes shone with an affronted gleam and Sandor felt his teeth bare in contentment at that.

 

“They’ll force you,” he advanced, fighting not to look too smug. He had meant what he said but was nevertheless satisfied with the reaction he was getting.

 

“I won’t let them,” she replied stubbornly.

 

The man snorted at that. “How could you ever manage if your father and his whole household coerced you?” he asked, bringing his face closer to hers.

 

“I… I don’t know if I could, but… but _I’d try_.”

 

The honesty of her statement was too evident to be denied and that was far more than Sandor had hoped for. “Well, that’s good to hear at least,” he said frankly. He still didn’t believe their story - or whatever the damned thing could be called - had a chance to last but hearing her eagerness was still a balm to his scarred spirit.

 

“But... but they’ll force you also…” the little bird whispered after a moment, sounding truly distraught. 

 

Sandor had to laugh at that. “How could they? I’m not a feeble maiden like you,” he countered, speaking the derisive comment faster than he could think while bracing his back as if to show her all the might he possessed.

 

His reply didn’t seem to cheer her up. “You’re stronger than me – I know that of course- yet they still could come with an army of men at your door.”

 

“Aye, that’s true enough,” he admitted, realising she had a point. “Still, little bird, I don’t believe, even if they made me gulp a gallon of the damned stuff by force, that I’d stop wanting _you_. Who would, after all, once you’ve been in their arms? And besides… I’ve _always_ been drawn to you, even before the bloody potion.”

 

“You were?” the little bird asked, her eyes growing wide.

 

“Are you truly surprised?” Sandor said, barely managing not to sneer at her innocence. “Do you sincerely believe every man in the damned Red Keep doesn’t dream of having you for himself?”

 

The girl seemed embarrassed at the idea, as if it wasn’t so fucking obvious. She averted her eyes, eyebrows knitted. “I… I don’t care about being in the dreams of any other man. I only want to be in yours…”

 

“That’s what you think for now. We’ll see what you’ll have to say about it once you’re cured from this _sickness_ \- as I’m sure your father sees it.”

 

“No, please! Don’t say that,” Sansa murmured, turning her head and shutting her eyes tightly. She looked so despondent that Sandor believed for an instant that she was about to weep.

 

Seeing how miserable the notion of her eventually coming back to reality made her feel, the man realised he had hit a chord he might as well push a little harder on. Making her realise how much the prospect of their parting grieved her would certainly help him get nearer to his goal of possessing her as completely as he could while time was on his side. “No need to be sad, Sansa. I’m not blaming you,” he began as sombrely as he could. “One thing sure is that once it’s all over and the philtre has no effect on you anymore, I’ll have been the luckiest bastard of the bloody realm to have had the chance to have you all for myself, even for a few instants. I’ll have some good memories to sleep with for the rest of my fucking life even though you’ll have forgotten me soon enough.”

 

“No! I don’t want to forget you!” the little bird cried, horrified. She had opened her eyes to look at him and they were shining with unshed tears.

 

As cruel as it was, the sight filled Sandor with satisfaction. “Then kiss me while you still want it,” he commanded, straightening his back in challenge.

 

The girl rose to it and immediately did as he bid her. In one quick movement, she threw her thin arms around his neck, her teats hitting his breastplate in the process, and brought her slightly opened lips to his. Without waiting for him to take the lead, she then slid her tongue into his mouth and Sandor groaned at the contact. She had never been so audacious and he was certainly not about to complain. His stratagem had borne fruit and even faster than he had hoped.

 

Nevertheless, the man gathered it was best not to push anything more on her so soon and thus, he forced his hands not to wander too much. He was glad enough to have won her back and to witness the extent of her passion for him. No matter if the pyromancer succeeded in finding a cure to his philtre, Sandor would most likely still have time to claim the little bird in the meantime - if only slightly. Albeit, it would certainly never suffice to assuage his thirst, even if he was lucky enough to take her maidenhood in truth before she came around. Nothing would ever quell his lust for her.

 

 _Besides, if you fucked her, how could you possibly let her go afterwards?_ Sandor wondered. The mere idea was enough to enrage him in truth and thus he swiftly chased it away. Now was not the time to plan for the darkness that awaited them. What he was living at present was too beautiful to be blemished. No woman had ever kissed him so softly, so earnestly... so fucking _lovingly_. Tenderness was not something Sandor was used to and he was surprised to realise how much he revelled in it coming from her. He wanted _more_ of it and of every other bloody thing she had to offer.

 

Sadly though, that was not to be today for less than a minute later, Sansa abruptly withdrew her lips from his. She was panting and her cheeks were flushed a deep shade of pink, almost red. “I need to go. Jeyne must be waiting for me!” she breathed in sudden panic.

 

“Not so soon,” Sandor complained, tightening his hands around her waist.

 

“But it’s been long already!” the girl cried, eyes wide with worry. He could feel her lithe muscles stiffening against his palms. “We told Septa Mordane we’d be back an hour after we left. If we’re late, she’ll surely wonder!”

 

As much as Sandor hated the idea that she would leave, he had to agree. No good would come from making any of her guardians worry.  “All right then, be on your way. But next time you come to the godswood to meet me, _stay longer_.”

 

“I will if I can,” she replied, evidently relieved that he had agreed so easily.

 

 “Go,” the man said, rising and helping her to her feet.

 

Once she was up, Sansa made to flee but then thought better of it and craned her neck, lips pursed.

 

Sandor understood her meaning and pressed his lips to hers. Yet all too soon, the damned girl ran from him, giggling at how he growled in annoyance at the brevity of their kiss.

 

When she got to the tent’s exit, she turned one last time. “I can’t wait to see you joust,” she said timidly.

 

“I won’t disappoint you,” Sandor promised, barely containing himself from striding to her, grasping her by the arm and dragging her back to her armchair – where she belonged.

 

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, the little bird smiled at him before turning and disappearing out of the tent.

 

Sandor sighed as soon as he lost sight of her, both relieved and frustrated. It was better that she had left. Every additional second that she stayed with him meant increased danger that he would lose his control with her. Furthermore, there’d be naught to gain from her disobeying the Lord Hand’s orders – or at least, attracting his attention to the fact that she did.

 

Aye, it was for the best that she had left and for many reasons – so why was he so damned irked by her departure?

 

Once his blood had cooled enough and he had regained his composure, Sandor followed the little bird out of the tent, lost in thought but just as he squinted his eyes against the afternoon glare, the Kingslayer broke his peace by laying a hand on his shoulder.

 

“So, you didn’t take her maiden gift, I hope... or _did you_?” he asked, a falsely candid smile fixed on his face.

 

At the impudent question, Sandor scowled, his mouth giving a twitch. The bugger really had a gift for finding new ways to irritate him.

 

When he realised he wouldn’t get any reply, Jaime sighed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have warned you so much. I could have used the advantage that losing your strength with a little lovemaking would have given me in the upcoming jousts.”

 

Against his better judgment, Sandor snorted a short and dry laugh. “If I’d had her - trust me - I wouldn’t care about losing a stupid second-class tourney against you.”

 

Ever the amicable bastard, Jaime clasped his shoulder and laughed. “I do believe you. A man needs to have his priorities, doesn’t he?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> This one took me forever to write is seems! It’s done at last though. I hope you’ll all enjoy! :)

**Sansa**

Further over at the side of the glade, the smallfolk were cheering wildly as the knights increased the speed of their horses. Closer to the king’s box but also standing directly on the dirt floor with no awning to protect them from the burning sun was a large group consisting of the richest traders and shop owners with their wives and children. Those ones, although visibly almost as excited as the poorer commoners, showed more restraint and dignity. Perhaps they were trying to mirror the noblemen and women that towered by their side, installed in their boxes? The latter were certainly very quiet in comparison. They watched in silence as the space between the two opponents grew thinner and thinner, their lips set into stiff little smiles.

 

King Robert was yawning when the fastest knight hit the other with the point of his lance – throwing him easily to the floor – but he thankfully quickly realised what had just happened and shook himself. Forcing a smile on his face, he gave a nod to the victorious knight while lazily clapping his hands.

 

“Son, you need to salute both these men for their bravery,” he said, glancing at Joffrey.

 

“Their _bravery_?” the prince repeated. “One is a weakling and the other faces no challenge to speak of! I don’t see what there is to congratulate here.”

 

At hearing his son’s words, the king’s eyes became wide and he turned his head completely to the side to stare straight at him, his eyebrows furrowed severely. “This tourney is held for _your_ nameday, son,” he began in a harsh whisper. “These men came to fight in your honour. Either you show them you do have some, or you won’t get _any_ of your presents, and none for all your other namedays to come. Am I understood?”

 

“Yes, Father,” Joffrey answered dryly, his stare lowered to his lap. Notwithstanding his words, the prince seemed in total disagreement. His face was red with anger, yet he stood up and gave a curt nod to both jousters before sitting down and looking away.

 

 _How did I ever believe him to be charming?_ Sansa wondered, glancing furtively his way. He was childish, spoiled and little more than a boy. While gazing at his skinny limbs and soft cheeks, there was no way she didn’t draw a comparison with the new object of her interest. _The Hound._ He was nothing like his charge. _So strong, tall and fierce._

 

“This Ser Renard is quite handsome. And he won this joust _so_ easily,” Jeyne murmured dreamily in Sansa’s ear.

 

The girl had not even remarked what the jousters had looked like but she acquiesced nonetheless, hoping that her agreement would satisfy her friend and that she would leave her to her musing. “He is indeed,” she breathed softly, still not bothering to gaze in Ser Renard’s direction.

 

Unfortunately, her distraction didn’t go unnoticed by Jeyne. “Oh, right. I had forgotten,” she began acerbically, bracing her back and folding her arms before her. “You don’t like handsome knights anymore. You prefer hideous, hulking sellswords with burned out-”

 

“Shhh! Stop it, Jeyne!” Sansa hushed her, feeling heat rising to her cheeks. Hopefully the din of the press had muffled her words and no one had heard.

 

“What’s the matter with you, young ladies?” Septa Mordane demanded irritably from her seat next to Jeyne, turning to lay disapproving eyes on them.

 

“Nothing! Nothing at all,” Sansa swiftly replied, giving Jeyne a discreet hit with her elbow to shut her up.

 

“Well, in that case, I don’t see any reason that you should make such a commotion,” the old woman told them sternly before returning her gaze to the field.

 

Both girls stayed silent afterwards, unwilling to attract their guardian’s attention. Jeyne was staring straight ahead and eating sugared almonds very noisily. She had a full bag of those on her lap and the sight sent a wave of annoyance over Sansa.

 

“If you hate him so much, why did you accept his silver stag?” Sansa whispered between her teeth while keeping her gaze on the retainers that prepared the field for the next joust.

 

“Why shouldn’t I? You were going to meet him no matter what I did so I don’t see why I shouldn’t gain something for my trouble,” she said in an undertone, before sending Sansa a glare and biting into another sugared almond.

 

“He’s being very generous with you, Jeyne! You shouldn’t judge him so harshly,” Sansa retorted in a murmur, hoping to convince her at last. It was getting very tiring to always get looked at reprovingly anytime she mentioned his name. They were best friends and therefore, shouldn’t Jeyne be happy that she had _finally_ found the man of her dreams? It would be so much nicer if Sansa could fully confide in her.

 

“He _has_ the means to pay,” the young commoner argued, bringing her face closer to Sansa to hiss in her ear. “Besides, I don’t like him _at all_. One would think that being so ugly, he’d be nice at least but he doesn’t seem to have figured that out.”

 

Sansa pursed her lips and frowned. “He’s very _nice_ to me,” she countered stubbornly. Although she would certainly never admit it, deep down she did agree with Jeyne about his attitude toward anyone that wasn’t her. He had indeed beendisagreeable to everyone she’d seen him speak to so far – even hostile sometimes. Why couldn’t he make a little effort – especially with Jeyne? It would make everything so much easier if he did.

 

“I do hope he is with all the risk I’m taking for you two,” the young commoner said haughtily, her nose held high. Then, she sighed and continued. “I really wish you would agree to stop seeing him though...”

 

“We’ve had this discussion already!” Sansa complained, not even bothering to hide her annoyance. “And I told you: _no_ , I won’t! I-”

 

“Shhhh! Be quiet!” Septa Mordane berated them. “What will the king and queen think of Northerners if even the most wellborn young lady of their kingdom can’t stop bickering? And you, Jeyne, you’re very lucky to have been given a place in the king’s own box considering your birth. Show some respect or else I’ll have you sent back to the Hand’s Tower.”

 

“I’m very sorry, Septa Mordane,” Sansa hurried to interfere. “It’s all my fault, I swear it! _Please_ , let Jeyne stay!”

 

The old woman gave her a faint, slightly satisfied smile. “All right, she can stay. Still, if either of you stop acting civilised again, I’ll execute my threat. Understood?”

 

“Yes, Septa Mordane,” both girls answered as one.

 

Once the old septa’s attention was not on them anymore, Jeyne gazed at Sansa out of the corner of her eyes and smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I’m glad you came to my defence.” Then, she took a handful of sugared almonds and lifted her fist before the other girl. “Want some?”

 

Sansa acquiesced, gathering the sweets in her hands, and they both resumed watching the jousts, their recent argument forgotten.

 

As the afternoon went on, more experienced fighters began to make appearances on the field. When Sandor’s first turn arrived at last and Sansa saw how very imposing he was on his monstrous black stallion, her breath caught in her throat. Was it really _this_ _man_ that had kissed her so passionately only a few hours ago? The mere notion was enough to bring her pulse to such speed and strength that for a few instants, it resounded louder than the clamour around her.

 

“Here’s your _knight_ , Sansa,” Jeyne said with a hint of derision. Still, as she gave her a small smile while uttering her comment Sansa didn’t take it badly. He was after all. _My knight_ … she mused, struggling not to grin too widely.

 

The beating of her heart was only starting to slow down when the girl realised with a start that Joffrey was discreetly gazing at her - seemingly displeased – from his seat on the higher platform he shared with his parents, brother and sister. _Did he notice how excited I was to see his sworn shield?_ Sansa wondered in sudden panic, feeling her cheeks reddening. He had barely spoken a word to her since she had arrived and that, even though she was seated right next to him. Had he heard the rumours about the love-philtre?

 

Thankfully, the boy’s interest was rapidly captured by the Hound throwing his adversary onto the dirt. _Just as he promised he would,_ Sansa reflected, her stomach filling with butterflies and her previous preoccupations all but forgotten.

 

After bringing his snorting stallion to a halt, Sandor jumped from his saddle, removed his snarling dog helm and threw back his head to get rid of the sweaty hair that had fallen over his face. Very briefly, he glanced Sansa’s way and the girl would have been ready to swear his eyes gleamed with bliss at catching sight of her, yet the moment lasted but a split second and he quickly averted his stare to gaze at the king, queen and prince instead. He showed them his respect by bowing slightly but didn’t linger and left the field without meeting eyes with anyone again.

 

As his dark shape disappeared from her view, Sansa let out a long shivering sigh. _How fearsome he is! How strong, how-_

 

“Are you feeling well, my poor child?” the queen’s soft voice abruptly disrupted her daydreaming. The woman had leaned forward in her chair to better gaze at her. “Your face is all flushed. What is the matter?” 

 

“Don’t bother her,” the king immediately grunted without even raising his gaze from the tankard of ale he held.

 

“But why? I’m only concerned for our future daughter-in-law’s _health_ ,” the queen told her husband while narrowing her eyes at him.

 

The king winced but he nonetheless kept silent. He didn’t seem to believe the queen’s assertion at all.

 

Sansa had always sympathised with Queen Cersei and disliked King Robert in turn – he was loud, far from refined and drunk most of the time and who would want to be married to such a man, after all? Nevertheless today, she was strangely grateful for his intervention. The queen’s tone had sounded… mocking? Perhaps even _mean_. That was odd; the woman had always been so kind to Sansa and the girl had adored and admired her in return. However now, something in her voice made her feel ill at ease.

 

 _I must be mistaken_ , Sansa told herself. And yet, the queen had most likely heard about the potion too since everyone in the Red Keep seemed to know, and in that case…

 

“Look, Sansa, it’s Ser Jaime,” Jeyne pointed out, putting a stop to her troubled train of thought.

 

Sansa’s gaze instantly darted to the field to find the man waiting at its entrance. He was astride a very elegant white horse adorned with crimson cloth and wore his golden armour, which shone brightly in the afternoon glare. Sansa’s eyes grew wide as soon as she saw him but she had barely glimpsed him when she averted them with the same urgency as if she had gazed at the sun itself.

 

“Your Grace, my queen,” the knight saluted not long afterwards. He had gotten nearer to the king’s box, Sansa realised, trembling slightly. “Happy nameday, my prince. I hope to please you with my effort in the jousts today,” he said to Joffrey, who gave him a small nod in response.

 

Sansa was staring at her lap, praying to the Seven that Ser Jaime wouldn’t notice her but that was all in vain of course. “Lady Sansa,” he began, approaching her. She couldn’t ignore him any longer and therefore, she reluctantly raised her stare to timidly gaze his way. When she did, his lips pulled into a smirk and his eyes shone with a delighted spark. “You look lovely today and most of all - _refreshed_ _and_ _rested_. You’ve been able stay out of the sun, I surmise? The light is so strong today.”

 

For a moment, Sansa was rendered completely speechless by the man’s brazenness. Had Joffrey or his parent heard? What would they think if they did? A quick glance to her side reassured her. None of them were looking her way. “Why yes, Ser Jaime. Thank you for your… concern,” she replied with not much assurance, feeling her cheeks burn all the way to her ears.

 

Her evident unease appeared to please him for his smirk widened but he thankfully didn’t insist on tormenting her any further and turned around to head toward the centre of the field instead.

 

“What was he talking about, Sansa?” Jeyne demanded lowly once she had scanned their surroundings to make sure no one was listening.

 

Very briefly, Sansa hesitated over whether she should tell her friend the truth or not but then she decided there was no reason to lie. “We met him –Sandor and me – not long after you left and he lent us his own private tent. That’s why you didn’t find me at first.”

 

“Oh,” Jeyne breathed, turning eyes as wide as saucers on her. “So you went into a tent - _alone_ with the Hound! - with no one to watch over you?” She was obviously shocked. “What by the _gods_ were you thinking, Sansa? What would you have done if he had tried… _something unseemly_?”

 

“ _Something unseemly_?” Sansa repeated although she knew very well what she had meant. Jeyne’s objection was ridiculous. Did she truly believe she’d have been able to protect her from someone as ineluctable as _the Hound_ if it had come to that?

 

“You know very well what I mean by that!” the young commoner countered, sounding slightly irked.

 

“Yes, of course I do,” Sansa admitted with some reluctance. “Well, he’s not like that, you know.”

 

“I find it hard to believe,” Jeyne replied flatly, looking away. “I’ve seen how he kisses you, Sansa. No chaste knightly kisses - _far_ from it.”

 

They both left it there and watched in silence as Ser Jaime approached his opponent at full speed before sending him rolling onto the ground. Sansa wasn’t surprised that he’d won. It was well known that he was one of the finest fighters of the realm after all.

 

Regardless of how much she tried not to let it appear so, Jeyne’s words kept turning in Sansa’s head for the following hour or so. She hadn’t been completely honest when she had insisted that the Hound wasn’t _like that_. In fact, Jeyne’s worry was truly well founded. He _had_ indeed touched her inappropriately while they kissed earlier today and even been irked when she made it clear she didn’t want him to continue. _Yet after his first reaction, he did calm down and tell me he wouldn’t force anything on me,_ she reminded herself. His promise had soothed her dread and she held to it as one would a lifebuoy in the open sea anytime she thought back on the hunger she had witnessed in his eyes. The memory of the intensity she had seen in them scared her as much as it thrilled her. It was all so very confusing…

 

 _Why is it that my heart threatens to burst from the love I feel anytime I think of him but fear rises in my belly whenever I’m in his arms?_ Sansa wondered. It was absurd: she longed to be by his side every single instant that they were apart but couldn’t bear his imposing presence for too long when they were together. Everything about him and his actions overwhelmed her to an extent that she always needed space to digest all the new things they did. Thereby, she would find an excuse to flee from his clutches every time they entered unknown territory but Sandor had made clear today that he didn’t want her to react thus anymore. Could she really accede to his demand and ignore her impulses though?

 

As the afternoon went on, the less talented knights were gradually eliminated and the winners of the first rounds began competing against each other. The Hound came back on several occasions and on each of these, he exchanged a brief glance with Sansa. The contact was enough to send pleasant shivers all through her body and make her forgive him for his previous insistence and lack of restraint. It was only natural for a grown man to wish for more than what a young maiden was comfortable offering, after all. Sansa wasn’t certain of how they’d manage to meet in the middle but everything was possible, was it not?

 

After countless confrontations, the tourney was at last coming to its end with only the final joust remaining when Sansa’s lord father finally arrived. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for days and wore his regular worn clothes, as if he was only going to the kitchen to fix himself a snack. Sansa’s eyes went wide with surprise at that. _Shouldn’t he have changed?_

 

“So, how is the tourney so far?” he asked once he had gotten near enough to be heard over the din, laying a heavy hand on her shoulder.

 

“Oh, wonderful, Father,” the girl replied, craning her neck to gaze at him.

 

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said so flatly that it was hard to believe he truly cared.

 

“Ned!” King Robert roared happily at seeing him. “Where were you? The tourney is almost over, by the gods!”

 

“I had to work, Your Grace,” Father replied stiffly.

 

“Always the same excuse with you,” the king returned gruffly before letting out a long, exasperated sigh that made it seem as if he had invited Father to spend extended holidays in the capital and not to become the realm’s Hand. “Anyhow, now that you’re here, take a seat.” Glancing around, King Robert quickly realised there was none left. “You!” he called, waving at one of his footmen. “Why is it that you’re not fetching a chair for the Lord Hand already?”

 

The servant jumped nervously and fled right away to do as he was asked. A moment later, he came back with a chair and settled it between Sansa and the royal family’s platform.

 

“Happy nameday, Prince Joffrey,” Father said to the prince as he sat. “I hope the tourney has proved to your liking.”

 

“ _Evidently_ ,” Joffrey answered with a blatant lack of enthusiasm - not bothering to gaze down his way.   

 

“So,” Father asked Sansa when he realised he wouldn’t get a better answer from the prince. “Did you enjoy yourself today?”

 

“Oh yes, of course, Father,” she told him with a tense smile. Although it shamed her to admit it, she had hoped he wouldn’t show up. It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy his company but having him by her side when she knew the Hound would very soon be on the field made her extremely nervous.

 

“Where’s Arya?” Father asked while gazing around them.

 

“I don’t know,” Sansa said honestly. She had completely forgotten her sister was expected to be there and quite frankly, hadn’t cared for her to come either.

 

“Good afternoon, Lord Stark,” Septa Mordane interfered. She was bowing in her chair with her head turned toward Father. “Arya was supposed to join us after her dancing lesson but it appears she has once more decided not to follow the directives she has been given.”

 

“Of course,” Father sighed while rubbing his hand over his brow in an exasperated gesture.

 

“Perhaps I should’ve asked for one of your men to fetch her earlier,” the old woman suggested. “It’s not too late, Lord Stark. If you wish it, I-”

 

“No, it’s all right. Don’t worry about it,” he told her, waving her concern away with the back of his hand. “I’ll speak to her about it later. For now, let’s enjoy what’s left of the tourney.” Then, he looked at Sansa and continued. “Where are we at now, Sansa? What’s still left for me to see?”

 

At his question, Sansa felt as if her blood had suddenly turned to ice but she fought not to let it show. “You arrived just before the last joust,” she whispered so softly her words were no more than a gasp of air. “Ser Jaime Lannister and… Sandor Clegane are just about to meet.”

 

At hearing her words, Father’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Oh... I see,” he uttered darkly before looking away uncomfortably.

 

Afterwards, an awkward silence fell over them. Sansa had no clue of how she might break it and therefore, she didn’t even try and kept biting at her lip instead although she knew it to be a nasty habit. Was Father mad at her for even mentioning the Hound’s name? It was unfair; she had only answered his question!

 

“Ned,” the king exclaimed just as Sansa was getting so anxious her stomach was beginning to ache. “Why don’t you come over here and install your chair next to mine so that we can enjoy a drink of ale together like old times?”

 

“I thank you for your offer, Your Grace,” Father started. “But I’d rather stay by my daughter’s side.”

 

“Robert! This is the royal family’s platform!” the queen snapped simultaneously, sounding as shocked as if the king had just given some of her jewels to a kitchen maid.

 

“All right then, both of you killjoys!” the king growled irritably before snapping his fingers toward his footmen. “Bring me more wine!”

 

Without delay, the men hurried to their task, filling their sire’s glass in no time.

 

Just as they did, the tourney’s last two contestants appeared on the field, Ser Jaime Lannister and Sansa’s one true love: _the Hound_.

 

Both took their places at the extremities of the glade, squires moving busily around them to help them prepare. The two men looked so different; one beautiful and glowing, the other dark and fearsome. Despite that, and Sansa would never have believed it less than a moon ago, all she could care for at the moment was the less classically good looking of the two. Sandor wasn’t as handsome as his opponent – most people would even call him ugly because of those burns that covered half of his face - however to Sansa, he was infinitely more attractive. The idea was mind-blowing and yet as much as she knew her newfound tastes should have appalled her, she couldn’t find it in her to truly mind. Truth be told, Sansa enjoyed the idea of how different she had grown from all the other noble maidens in her surroundings. It brought her a sense of defiance, as if she had all of a sudden transformed into a rebel without realising it and while it wasn’t like her to have such aspirations, she nevertheless found the notion terribly _thrilling_.

 

“The final joust,” the loud voice of the announcer called for all to hear. “Sandor of House Clegane and Ser Jaime of House Lannister.”

     

Cheers and claps were heard and both men laid their helms over their heads and adjusted their positions over their horses as the clamour slowly died.

 

An instant later, the announcer gave the go-ahead and Ser Jaime and Sandor swiftly brought their horses to a run. Bowed over their mounts with their lances solidly placed over their shoulders, they were hurrying toward the other with the same warrior grace while continuously increasing their speed, a thick cloud of dust rising behind them.

 

Her heart beating at the same crazy cadence the hooves hit the ground, Sansa followed their approach, barely managing to breathe normally. While she did notice that her lord father’s gaze was glued to her – studying her every reaction - she was somehow unable to keep herself in check and not show how tense with anticipation she was.

 

When at last they met, both men’s lances brushed the other’s armour but at the last instant, the Hound turned slightly in his saddle and shoved the point of his into Ser Jaime’s plate. The latter lost his balance and fell to the ground, rolling for a few yards while cheers resounded all over the crowd – although, not as much as could be expected from a final joust.

 

As she watched Ser Jaime hit the floor, Sansa gasped and almost jumped from her seat in her joy, still she thankfully remembered in time _she couldn’t_ and tightly circled her fingers around the arms of her chair instead.

 

“Sansa,” Jeyne abruptly whispered in her ear as the girl admired the Hound’s impressive physique. “The lords and ladies of the court... they’re all staring at _you_!”

 

At the remark, Sansa’s breath caught in her throat and she immediately swept panic-stricken eyes over the noblemen and women that surrounded her. Most were clapping very lazily and apparently following what went on over the field but the girl nonetheless noticed how some of them were discreetly peeking her way. Their inquisitive glances had the effect of a cold shower on her. _Are they all so curious to see my reaction to the Hound’s winning?_ she wondered in dismay. _Have they taken note of how elated I was?_

 

As these troubling questions sprouted in her mind, Sansa’s back became as rigid as an old piece of steel. She chanced a furtive glimpse in her father’s direction, fearing that the attention she was being given had not escaped him either. And indeed, even though he was staring straight ahead and avoiding eye contact with anyone, the tautness of his muscles and sombre look on his face told her he was very well aware of what was going on. The prospect filled Sansa with dread. In an eye blink, she lost all her previous giddiness and from then on, kept her hands demurely folded in her lap and gaze away from the horde in hope that a modest attitude might quell her lord father’s irritation.

 

Ser Jaime was still lying on the ground when Sansa returned her attention to the field but having taken a couple of seconds to steady his breathing and rejected the help his squires offered him, he rolled over and stood up. Afterwards, he rubbed off the dirt that had gotten all over his formerly impeccable armour - scowling and apparently displeased at having been defeated - but then he suddenly looked at Sandor and a mischievous little smirk appeared on his face.

 

“We have a winner,” he exclaimed for everyone to hear, striding toward the Hound.

 “Sandor Clegane is the joust’s champion!” he added with far too much enthusiasm while stretching an arm toward his opponent as if anyone needed to be reminded of who the Hound was.

 

Some cheers were heard, mainly from the stands of the poorer folks albeit more reserved ones came from all around Sansa also.

 

“And now that the champion is known, let him choose our _Queen of Love and Beauty_!” Ser Jaime yelled so loudly that Sansa wondered if his cry hadn’t been heard all the way to the Red Keep itself. Without losing a beat, the knight ran to where the crown of flowers meant for said title was kept and brought it to the Hound. “Go on, dog! Choose us a worthy queen.”

 

At first, Sandor seemed sceptical and only gazed in distrust at the bouquet but then – as if on second thought - he glanced Sansa’s way and smiled faintly. It all went extremely fast afterwards. In less time than she could cogitate what was happening, the Hound snatched the crown from the other man’s hands, sprinted toward Sansa and threw it high enough that it flew and turned in the air before falling right over her lap.

 

When it did, he announced in that distinctive hoarse voice of his, “Sansa Stark is.”

 

From that instant, a hush fell over the press. Even Sansa didn’t know how she should react and could only fix the crown with disbelieving eyes, not even daring to move her fingers to touch its delicate flowers. She had dreamed of being named Queen of Love and Beauty since she was a little girl and the notion that her wish had truly been fulfilled woke a pleasant warmth in her belly. On the other hand, in her fantasies the man that had granted her the title had always been her official suitor and everyone had smiled, cheered and shared her joy at hearing her name being called. Now though, the silence that enveloped the king’s box was unbearable and Sansa’s cheeks were burning from the embarrassment she felt at knowing everyone’s eyes were on her. Still, what worried her the most was Father’s thoughts on her unexpected crowning.

 

It took everything Sansa had in her to gather enough courage to gaze up, however when she finally did, Sandor had already strode away and she only had time to glimpse his broad back as he disappeared from the field.

 

“Your Grace, this cannot be accepted,” Father hissed just as soon, rising from his seat to gaze at the king.

 

“What does it look like, Robert?” the queen complained in the same breath, advancing in her chair.

 

“Hush, both of you!” the king growled.

 

“But, Robert! It’s my daughter we’re talking of and what will the people think about-”

 

“Let’s not make a scene out of this!” the king cut him dryly. “We’ll talk about this _later_. No good will come of attracting the plebs’ attention over our problems.”

 

King Robert’s intervention seemed to quell both Sansa’s father and Queen Cersei’s dissent for the former calmly regained his seat and the latter didn’t voice another word afterwards.

 

“Crowned by a mere dog... _my_ dog! Perhaps she should be betrothed to him instead,” Joffrey grumbled. Then, he jerked his head around to gaze at Sansa and added: “What do you say, Sansa? Would you-”

 

“This applies to you also, son! I don’t want to hear _another_ word from you until we leave. You hear me?” the king demanded, glowering at his son.

 

The boy nodded and looked away but not before sending Sansa one last glare.

 

Displeasing her _betrothed_ wasn’t something that bothered Sansa much. She had lost all interest in him in all honesty but what she felt about her lord father was another matter completely. The girl had very rarely seen him look so angry and the notion filled her with apprehension _. Is he really mad at me? What was I supposed to do? Refuse the title? But it would’ve been so rude!_ she wondered, at a loss. She was still torturing herself over these questions when Father laid eyes on her with such suspicion that she suddenly began to fear he could read her mind and see how the Hound had kissed her only a few hours ago but just as she reminded herself that it was impossible, the loud voice of the announcer resounded over the field:

 

“Lady Sansa, maiden daughter of Eddard Stark - Lord Hand of our glorious realm - is _Queen of Love and Beauty_ of this tourney, crowned by Sandor Clegane, swornshield of House Lannister!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> The latest chapter of my fic is finally completed! Hope you’ll enjoy!

**Eddard**

“But I assure you, my dear Lord Hand!” the pyromancer was insisting pleadingly, his sweaty hands clasped together and shaking before his chest. All around him, an impressive number of tubes and decanters lay on several tables, some of which were hung over a small brazier and making bubbling sounds as coloured smoke escaped the dubious liquid they held. “I’m working day and night! I’m doing all I can to find a cure to the philtre!” the old man continued in the same shivering voice.

 

“It certainly doesn’t look like it, judging by your lack of result!” the king growled, taking a few steps toward the pyromancer before Eddard even had a chance to open his mouth.

 

Adelardus, although already small, shrunk so much that he barely seemed taller than Tyrion Lannister. “Creating any potion takes time, Your Grace!” he said, retreating slightly. “The creation of the love-philtre took me _decades_!”

 

At hearing his response, Eddard shut his eyes as if in pain and brought one of his hands to his forehead. _Decades!_ he repeated inwardly, unwilling to believe what he had just heard. As if on cue, he suddenly felt the headache he almost continuously had these days make its shy appearance at the top of his brow.

 

“Are you truly implying that it could take you _more than ten years_ to cure Lady Sansa?” the king asked, his voice a low and threatening rumble as he approached the pyromancer. “Do you realise that our Lord Hand’s daughter is betrothed to my son and that-”

 

“Your Grace,” Ned interfered wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “I’m sure Adelardus is well aware of all this. Perhaps we should leave him to his work and get back to ours.”

 

“All right, Ned. As you say,” the king reluctantly conceded. The pyromancer sighed visibly in relief at that but he had not finished exhaling when Robert returned his gaze to him, pointing a finger in his direction. “Keep searching, Pyromancer Adelardus,” he ordered. “And forget about your _decades_. If you have not found an antidote for your potion in six moons, we’ll find you a nice room to work in at the Wall. I’m sure your knowledge of fire would be much welcomed in a place as cold and hostile as the deep north.”

 

His eyes growing big and white and his shaking increasing, Adelardus nodded frantically, obviously not seduced by the prospect of wearing the black in the least.

 

His response seemed to satisfy the king for he narrowed his eyes and a small smirk formed on his face. Without any more delay, he then headed for the exit, followed by Ser Barristan and Ned but just as he was getting near the door, he turned and glanced in the pyromancer’s way again. “We’ll be checking back on you in a sennight,” he informed him before leaving the laboratory.

 

Once Ser Barristan had closed the door behind the king and Ned, the three of them began walking through the small and dark windowless corridor that led to the stairs. The pyromancers’ quarters were buried deep under the earth for reasons of security since some of their experiences were renowned for being explosive - _literally_.

 

“Your Grace, if I may,” Ned began after a few seconds of silence. “I’m not sure threatening the pyromancer will achieve anything.”

 

The king seemed confused at that. “But, Ned! You told me yourself I was too lenient with him,” he exclaimed with a hint of irritation while glancing his way.

 

“I did say so and I persist in the belief that you were but I’m not convinced any man is at his best when working under duress,” Ned explained perhaps a little too dryly.

 

“You’re really hard to follow, Ned, believe me. I only wanted to please you,” Robert replied flatly, his face settling into a scowl.

 

Eddard let out a deep sigh at that. “If you truly want to _please me_ as you say, Your Grace, then tell Sandor Clegane that the order we gave him not to have any contact with my daughter includes that he shouldn’t give her any gifts either.” As he finished, Ned realised how enraged he had become and forced himself to take a deep breath.

 

The king had barely seemed to notice his friend’s loss of temper. “Gifts?” he repeated, apparently puzzled while jerking his head to look at him.

 

“I’m talking of that Queen of Love and Beauty title and that blasted crown of flowers he threw onto her lap!” Eddard exclaimed with exasperation. “As if that was needed. The situation was already complicated enough as it was, by the gods! Poor Sansa had tears in her eyes when I took it from her once we got home after the tourney and went running to her chamber to cry.”

 

Ned had not yet shut his lips when Robert abruptly halted and laid disbelieving eyes on him. “You took it from her? _Her_ crown?”

 

“Of course I did!” Ned retorted with annoyance. “You think I’d let her keep anything coming from _that_ man?”

 

“But Ned!” the king roared, throwing his large, meaty hands in the air. “Every maiden dreams of being named Queen of Love and Beauty! Taking from her the proof of her election was beyond cruel!”

 

“And what was I supposed to do? Let her keep the damned thing so that she thinks of him whenever she looks at it? That would only encourage her… _infatuation_ which is the last thing I want.”

 

“You’re making too much fuss over this, Ned. What do you say, Barristan?” the king asked, gazing at the other man.

 

The old knight jumped slightly at being forced into the conversation and his face lost its usual assurance. “I… ah… I think Lord Stark is within his rights as a father to decide what is good for his daughter,” he grumbled uneasily while scratching the back of his head.

 

“Still, both of you!” the king interjected, apparently upset not to have found an ally in his guard. “Do you truly believe Sansa is the first maiden to be besotted with a knight or to have a secret admirer?”

 

“The Hound’s no knight, Your Grace, don’t you remember?” Ned countered as a deep frown creased his brow.

 

“You know what I mean,” Robert returned lazily, waving the comment away with the back of his hand as if it really didn’t make any difference.

 

“Yes, I do but this is totally different,” Eddard began stiffly. “We’re not talking of some lonely girl building castles in the air for herself in her room at night. Sandor Clegane _is_ interested in her - and he’s no secret admirer either! She’s aware of his interest and worst of all, he knows that she’s… that she’s _enamoured_ with him,” he spat with unhidden distaste.

 

“Of course, I can understand your concern,” Robert gave in without truly seeming to have a single idea of what he was advocating. “Still, Ned, giving the title of Queen of Love and Beauty doesn’t involve any contact. It’s a very innocent gesture, by the gods! The Hound could even have fought on Joffrey’s behalf and named Sansa for him and I’m sure that wouldn’t have bothered you.”

 

“But that was not the case, Your Grace! It’s evident he did it for himself and as a means to… _seduce her_ and get in contact with her.” Ned grimaced at that, the words having left a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

“This is what I was getting at, Ned. You’re worrying too much,” Robert said with regained good humour while resuming his walk toward the stairs. Both Eddard and Ser Barristan quickly followed. “You told me yourself Sansa is not allowed to leave the Hand’s tower unaccompanied. The Hound is evidently never going to manage to speak to her under these conditions, so what is a little token of admiration going to hurt?”

 

Although it bore some truth, the king’s statement didn’t do anything to lift Ned’s spirits. For a moment, he was tempted to remind his old friend of how years prior to yesterday’s tourney the same title had been given to Lyanna and of all the consequences this apparently innocuous gesture had brought to the realm but he surmised it was perhaps best he left his sister to her peace. “Yes, still, Your Grace, I’d appreciate it if you talked to Sandor Clegane and told him he has crossed a line with his actions yesterday. The man needs to be reminded that no contact whatsoever is permitted between him and Sansa.”

 

“All right, Ned. I guess I can do that for you. As a matter of fact, Sandor is expected to begin his shift as my guard in less than an hour. I’ll talk to him as soon as he meets me if it makes you feel better. Would you like that?”

 

“Oh yes, Your Grace. I would very much,” Ned replied, the promise making him feel slightly better.

 

 

**Sansa**

Sansa and Jeyne were walking down the stairs and heading to the picnic Princess Myrcella had invited them to. The prospect of going to the Red Keep’s luxurious gardens was enchanting as always, yet Sansa didn’t feel as light-hearted as she usually did at such instances.

 

“You shouldn’t be so mournful, Sansa. You were named Queen of Love and Beauty no earlier than yesterday!” Jeyne reminded Sansa a little too joyfully to her taste. How could she not realise how _tragic_ her situation was?

 

“I _am_ happy about it, of course - but still,Jeyne! Father seized the crown from me even before I had a chance to take a good look at it!” Sansa exclaimed while glancing sadly in her friend’s direction.

 

“Everyone knows you were named,” Jeyne retorted back. “Isn’t that enough?”

 

“But that’s _exactly_ the problem! I’d rather not a soul had heard about it and then I’d have a souvenir of that wonderful honour I was given by Sandor - not the opposite!” Sansa had to explain. She was slightly irritated by her friend’s lack of perspicacity.

 

“I don’t follow you,” the young commoner said, to Sansa’s increased impatience. “Isn’t the appeal of being named Queen of Love and Beauty that everyone hears about it and to become the envy of all the other girls at court?”

 

“No, Jeyne, you don’t understand!” Sansa cried with despair, halting to look at her friend. She had to fight not to roll her eyes at her. “I’m beyond elated that Sandor gave me the crown: it’s the fact that everyone judges me for it that bothers me! Yet even with that, the idea that my lord father knows about it _is_ what bothers me the most. If it could all have happened without him hearing of it, it would have been all the better. Now though, he has witnessed everything and because of it, he has grown extremely suspicious of me. I feel so exposed!” Then Sansa once more remembered the worst part of it. “And he has even forced me to give him _my crown_!”

 

“That’s not so bad, Sansa-”

 

“Yes, _it is_! You truly don’t understand, do you?” Just as she said the words, an idea struck Sansa and she paused for an instant, her annoyance suddenly fading away. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jeyne,” she apologised in a calmer tone. “Perhaps you’re not to blame after all. I had completely forgotten that you’ve never loved anyone as I love Sandor and that you haven’t been loved back either.” At that, she smiled kindly at Jeyne and laid a friendly hand on her shoulder. “One day once you know what it feels like, you’ll most likely see why I react as I do.”

 

The comment didn’t seem to please the other girl for her lips pulled into a frown. Sansa didn’t blame her. She remembered all too well how it felt to only be able to dream about love without experiencing it. Living it in truth brought a maiden to a whole new level one couldn’t even start figuring beforehand. Sansa wasn’t so much a child anymore now that she _knew_ and she felt a hint a pity for her friend at the thought of her ignorance in the matter.

 

“I so wished Father had let me keep the crown!” she regretted after having resumed her walk. Jeyne shortly followed, vainly trying to keep up. “If he hadn’t taken it away, I’d have dried some of the flowers in my poetry books and kept them for as long as the world lasts… I could’ve had one with me at all times –some in my hair, others in my pouch… Yet, now I have _nothing_ …”

 

When Sandor had named her Queen of Love and Beauty, Sansa had been totally taken off guard. Not that she didn’t believe the Hound saw her as _his queen_ but only because their love was supposed to remain a secret. Despite the dangers, he had nonetheless deemed it good to grant her the title and although the notion enthralled her, the consequences of his action had been obvious from the start. The decision had been too bold and Father had agreed, evidently. Thankfully while he had seemed suspicious at first, the latter hadn’t done anything apart from forcing Sansa to give up her crown. The fact that he hadn’t questioned her about the events of the afternoon had been a real relief. The girl wasn’t sure she’d have been able to lie effectively.

 

“Sansa?” Jeyne asked after long moments of striding through the corridors in silence. “Do you think there’ll be lemon cakes at Princess Myrcella’s picnic?”

 

The idea was appealing and brought a faint smile to Sansa’s lips. “I do hope so,” she answered, her mouth watering at the thought of the delicious dessert. 

 

Encouraged by her positive reaction, Jeyne continued, this time more shyly. “Do you think I should get one of those new Tyroshi coloured scarves they’re selling at the fair? They’re so pretty! I wonder if-”

 

“If you could get one with what remains of the silver stag Sandor gave you?” Sansa completed, jerking her head to glare at her friend.

 

“Yes,” the young commoner admitted reluctantly.

 

“You can do whatever you like with the coins Sandor gave you,” Sansa told her dryly. “Still, you had better stop complaining about him if you’re to-”

 

“Little bird!” a deep, raspy voice suddenly resounded from behind them.

 

At hearing the husky sound, Sansa’s eyes went wide. Instantly, she turned to sweep her gaze through the long corridor and jumped at seeing the Hound rapidly coming her way.

 

“My lord!” she exclaimed.

 

“No ‘my lords’ with me, little bird, I told you already!” the man grumbled. The burned corner of his mouth twitched in annoyance even as the other end curled into a faint smile.

 

“I… I’m sorry… Sandor,” Sansa whispered timidly, looking down for a second. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

 

“Of course you weren’t. I didn’t expect to find you on my way either,” he rasped as he came nearer, a smirk forming on his face. Once he was at less than a yard from her, he fumbled in place for a heartbeat or two and added: “So where are you heading?”

 

“I’m meeting Princess Myrcella in the garden for a picnic,” Sansa recited demurely. “And you?”

 

“I’m to guard the king,” the Hound answered, laying a land on the hilt of the sword he had at his hip. Then he narrowed his eyes at Sansa and continued, leaning toward her: “You’re looking pretty today - as always.”

 

The girl blushed at the comment. “But I’m wearing an old dress,” she countered humbly, gathering some of the fabric of her skirt in her hand while glancing down at it. “And my hair is -”

 

“You think I care about your bloody dress?” Sandor cut her with a wicked half-grin. “It’s nice – the colour and all - I’ll give it that, yet it’s _you_ I’m talking of. You’re fucking breathtaking, girl.”

 

Without willing it, Sansa let out a small gasp of surprise and brought a feather-light hand to her heart. She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks.

 

“I thought I was in a hurry before crossing paths with you but now I realise naught is important enough that I can’t take a few minutes to kiss you as I should,” the Hound muttered lowly. Once he had taken an instant to admire how Sansa’s fair skin flushed at hearing his proposal, his eyes became cold and darted to Jeyne. “You!” he hissed. “Why don’t you stay here for a moment while I bring your mistress to a safe corner? You can do that, can you?”

 

“B… but we’re expected!” Jeyne replied weakly, her stare barely meeting Sandor’s. “I’m not sure that it’s such a good-”

 

“Well, I’m not sure that I want to hear what you have to say either,” the Hound spat roughly. Then, he sighed and fished a silver stag out of his pouch before putting it in Jeyne’s hand. “Take this and keep that bloody mouth of yours shut. All I want is for you to stay here and keep your eyes wide open. If anyone comes this way, you’ll run as if your life depended on it and warn us. Is that clear enough for you?”

 

“Y… yes, it is,” Jeyne replied, gazing at the shining coin on her palm.

 

“Perfect. Mayhap I’ll give you something else afterward if you do your job correctly. Do you think you can do that?” the Hound demanded, poking a finger at Jeyne’s shoulder.

 

“I… I think I can,” the young commoner stammered.

 

“That’s all I want to hear.” Then, Sandor turned and laid a hand over the base of Sansa’s neck, massaging it with firm but gentle fingers. “Come, little bird,” he said.

 

Although Sansa also wasn’t sure this was such a good idea, she couldn’t find it in her to refuse. She was too excited to get to spend some time alone with Sandor so unexpectedly and still too intimidated by him to object.

 

“Little bird,” the man breathed into her hair as he dragged her through the corridor. “Were you pleased when I named you _Queen of Love and Beauty_ yesterday at the tourney? I wager you’ve fancied something similar for as long as you’ve been old enough to understand those bloody songs you love so much. Perhaps I’m no knight but I definitely can defeat any of those buggers anytime.”

 

“Oh, I was delighted of course,” Sansa whispered as she tried to keep up with his pace. “Still, my lord father didn’t appreciate it in the least,” she added, unable to keep the sorrow that assailed her at the thought from showing in her voice.

 

Sandor snorted a short, hoarse laugh at that. The notion seemed to amuse him. “I’m sure he didn’t.”

 

“That’s naught to laugh about!” Sansa replied, turning to lay teary eyes on him. “He was really mad when we got home and I was so anxious - I hardly could breathe! And he even took the crown from me!”

 

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Sandor stated in a tone that sounded almost mocking, his lips curling into a smirk.

 

The lack of concern with which he had responded sent a pang of hurt through Sansa’s heart and she swiftly averted her eyes, hurrying forward to keep her distance from him, yet she had not taken three steps when she heard him exhale and felt thick fingers seize her upper arm.

 

“Come now,” the Hound rasped as he forced her to halt. Once she had, he yanked her nearer and twisted her around until she faced him completely. He was still smiling when she met his gaze but his expression was softer now. “Don’t take it so damned badly, little bird,” he started in a tone that wavered between irritation and fondness. “I’m just not used to dealing with girls young enough to be under their father’s authority, that’s all.”

 

It was easy for Sansa to forget just how much older than her Sandor was although it was evident that anyone looking at them wouldn’t miss it - even for the space of an eye blink. What sort of women had he frequented in the past? The question perplexed her, and even though she was left with no answer, she doubted he had ever courted a highborn maiden before. Somehow, the notion heartened her. She really wanted to be his first for something at least, to bring him something he had never known before. “I’m not blaming you, of course,” Sansa conceded in a shy murmur. “I only wish you understood how much I wanted to keep it,” she regretted, lowering dejected eyes to the ground.

 

“The crown? I’m sure you would have,” Sandor allowed, snorting softly and raising a hand to caress her cheek with his knuckle. “Yet that was no more than a buggering bouquet of flowers, Sansa. I’ll get you far more pretty things instead - whatever you’d like.”

 

“But none will mean as much! None will remind me of how you’ve crowned me Queen of Love and Beauty,” the girl asserted with renewed passion.

 

“You know I did though. That’s enough, isn’t it? Flowers fade; you’d have lost them in time, no matter what the fuck you did to preserve them.” Eyes gleaming and narrowed, Sandor brought his face closer to hers. “I could buy you jewellery instead, something nice to go with your eyes-”

 

“But my father will find out! He’d find out even if you gave me the smallest of things!”

 

The prospect didn’t appear to unnerve him in the least for he bared his teeth in a predatory smile. “Then it seems all I can offer you is my unsavoury presence… That and _my kisses_. I don’t mind it a damned bit: in truth, that’s all I really care to give you.”

 

As he spoke, the Hound settled his hands around Sansa’s waist and pushed her against the wall that stood behind her. She let out a small cry and tensed.

 

“Please, be careful! What if someone saw us?” the girl warned him while looking around her and squirming.

 

“No one will. We’re in some insignificant alley and your little friend is watching for us at the end of it, remember?” Sandor muttered, nuzzling at her neck.

 

“Yes, I know,” Sansa agreed, shifting uncomfortably in his clutches. “Still, it feels so-”

 

“Relax, little bird,” the Hound bade her, moving his head back slightly to gaze at her and cupping her jaw with his palm. “I’ll be heading to my duty in but a damned moment. Don’t refuse me my puny prize in the meantime, hmm? Can’t a man that has risked his bloody life the previous day to honour his lady get a few innocent kisses in recompense before a long night of work? Don’t be cruel to me, Sansa. I don’t deserve it. Well, at least not from you.” Then, his eyes darkened and he added; “And I won’t tolerate it either.”

 

Both figuratively and literally, Sansa had her back to a wall and as much as being trapped with no way out should have horrified her, she felt all warm and hazy. The Hound’s proximity made her skin flush until it burned and she wanted more of his presence, yet decorum and her every instinct demanded that she not be an easy target. “Not now, not-”

 

Sansa had not even truly begun her sentence when Sandor pressed his lips to hers. In spite of her previous attempt, she didn’t try to push him back this time and opened her mouth instead. Her response encouraged him and he pushed himself further against her. She squeaked in surprise but his ardour was enticing as ever and she became as soft as a doll under his hands. Even though she knew it shouldn’t, his eagerness was getting less and less frightening to her and increasingly exhilarating instead.

 

“Little bird,” he groaned, lifting her against the wall. “When will I see you next? _When_? It had better be soon, or else… or else…”

 

“Don’t be foolish, _please_!” Sansa gently scolded him. “We need to be careful… If anyone learns about us, _we’re doomed_!”

 

“Why would anyone find out? All I want is for us to meet soon – very soon. Anywhere will be fine with me. I’m at you mercy, Sansa. I’ll do anything you ask of me just to get a chance to taste your sweet flesh –whatever part you deem good enough for me.” 

 

His improper intimation shocked her as much as it thrilled her and she wondered what he’d do to her if they were ever to be alone in his room… The idea woke all sorts of strange sensations in Sansa’s belly and she felt guilty at not fighting them harder than she did.

 

When their lips met again, Sansa moaned in pleasure at the contact of the Hound’s tongue - so insatiable, so _demanding_. His hands were stroking her sides from hips to ribs as if no limits existed and she was uncertain of where she should draw the line, of when she should stop him – or if she would ever do it at all. Sandor had told her moments ago that all he desired was a few innocent kisses but it was getting harder and harder to believe his words had been genuine judging by the way he sucked at her lips and tongue and the desperate manner he clutched at her curves. Yet just as she was starting to worry, movements coming from where Jeyne had been watching for them disrupted them.

 

“No! Please! There’s n… nothing… I assure you, nothing…”

 

That was Jeyne’s voice, Sansa realised, a cold shiver going down her spine. Sandor noticed also for he abruptly dropped Sansa to her feet and took a step backward. Just as they both turned their heads to gaze in the direction of the noise, the shape of four distinctive people took form and Sansa gasped in horror when it became clear they were respectively Jeyne, Ser Barristan Selmy, King Robert and worst of all, _her lord father_.

 

“What by the old gods is happening here?!” the latter roared in a tone so threatening, she barely recognised his voice.

 

The girl had never seen him look so angry in all her life and for a moment, she feared he would draw his dagger and try to kill Sandor on the spot.

 

“No! Don’t hurt him!” Sansa cried, putting herself before him and as she did, the expression she saw in Father’s eyes froze her to the bone.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> I know! I’ve been so bad at updating lately. I’m so sorry! I hope you’ll enjoy anyhow.

**Sandor**

The yard was almost empty at this late hour of the night and Sandor was grateful for it. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone and even exchanging glances with the few passers-by to cross the place every now and then taxed him in the worst fucking way possible. In the sombre mood he was in, the only things worthy of grasping his interest were the wineskin he kept by his side and his sword as he very slowly brushed it with his whetstone. Sandor had been working on the blade for hours now. The shiny steel was already sharp enough to cut through a piece of paper, still he obsessively kept going and wasn’t sure he’d stop before he became drunk and clumsy enough that he cleaved his wrist by accident.

 

Some sellswords and knights had approached him throughout the evening, some smiling mockingly, others apparently simply curious, yet either way Sandor had not cared to hear them out. Even before they had had a chance to take more than a few steps toward him, he had warned them with a glare to keep their distance, glad to see their backs when they understood the danger they faced otherwise. Had they heard about what had happened three days prior? Of how he had been caught with the Hand’s daughter alone in a dark corridor by the bloody Northerner himself? It was hard to say. Logically, a proud man such as he should have done all in his fucking power to keep anyone from learning the Lannister dog had spent so much as a minute alone with his maiden daughter but secrets were never kept for very long in the buggering Red Keep. Someone had seen or heard something - that was a bloody given - and people would start whispering sooner rather than later. The notion was beyond infuriating to Sandor. He hated being exposed, hated his secrets being known and most of all he _despised_ the idea that his weaknesses might become a spectacle for all to laugh at.

 

Three days ago, Sandor had been foolish enough to let his passion lead him. It hadn’t been especially brilliant to leave with the little bird minutes before his shift started and with no more guard than that skinny servant friend she had. That one was no more than a bloody twig to be thrown in the air by the first wind to blow her way. What sort of protection was she supposed to offer? In comparison, finding shelter within the Kingslayer’s tent during the tourney had been a genius idea –even though it had seemed beyond senseless at the time. For as much as Sandor hated to admit it, Jaime Lannister was someone he could count on. Not that he was trustworthy – in fact, he gave more credit to Sansa’s little commoner friend than to the obnoxious bastard - yet at least the Kingslayer had the influence, capacity and wit to stop powerful court members in their tracks. Sandor had been as foolish and blind as a green boy eager to see his first pair of teats but it was worthless to regret his actions now.

 

Sandor was not used to being treated like a disobedient little boy, yet being reprimanded by the king and his Hand had felt exactly like that. It was almost laughable that anyone would even contemplate interfering between the Hound and the female on whom he had fixed his interest yet unlike his usual quarries, Sansa was not some lowly whore no one gave a bloody shit about. Quite the opposite in fact. Fuck, the girl was one of the most highborn maidens in the kingdom – betrothed to the bloody heir to the throne himself! – while Sandor was the grandson of a kennel master and not even knighted. The man almost snorted at the thought, but he didn’t. His throat was far too dry for it. At the realisation, he settled the flat of his sword over his thighs and took a long swig from his wineskin. The beverage was sour, bitter and thirst-quenching at once, something good he could lean upon. Its taste and effect never failed him at least.

 

“Dog! What are you doing?” a boyish voice asked from his side, interrupting the faint peace he had only achieved as he drank.

 

Sandor scowled as soon as he heard the all too familiar sound but he nevertheless removed the neck of his skin from his lips and stood up. “Getting drunk by myself on my night off, my prince. As always.”

 

Joffrey smiled meanly at that. Meryn Trant was behind him, his grin just as contemptuous. “I’m sure that’s naught new to you,” the lad said with a snigger. “Still, I know you have another reason to drink. You want my betrothed.” At that, he fell silent, his chin held high as if he was proud to have figured it out,  and folded his arms over his chest, waiting for a reply.

 

Lying was not something Sandor enjoyed in the least and thus he settled on saying nothing. He _did_ want the lad’s betrothed. Very, _very_ much…

 

“Don’t fear telling me the truth, dog. I don’t mind. I don’t want her anymore anyhow,” Joffrey spat with disdain. “If it was up to me, I’d give her to you right away so that you could keep her in your den and do whatever you please with her. As for myself, I’d marry someone else instead. It would be all for the better. A Hound like you goes far better with a wolf than a lion.”

 

 _A lion_ , Sandor mused with a hint of amusement. _That_ the boy was indeed, although he should have thought of himself as a stag like his _father_ the king. Still even if he had, when had anyone ever heard of stags coupling with wolves? _Never_. Dogs did just that though - it was well known. For as much as it meant nothing, the notion brought a smirk to Sandor’s lips.

 

“I appreciate your generosity, my prince,” he rasped while sheathing his sword, a soft, clean hiss of steel emanating from the weapon as he did. “And I’d accept your offer if it was possible,” he added, looking Joffrey straight in the eyes.

 

“I’ll speak to Mother about it. We spoke and I know she doesn’t like the idea of me marrying Lady Sansa anymore. She’s tainted now that she has drunk the potion and won’t be pure enough to wed a prince of the blood. Perhaps in time she’ll convince Father to break the betrothal and then you’ll be free to have Sansa for yourself.”

 

Sandor snorted to show what he thought of that but couldn’t stop his lips from splitting into a grin. He did like the sound of what the lad proposed. “I doubt that Lord Stark would agree with your plans even if she was free from the engagement. Still I’d be grateful if you managed to convince the queen. I’ll take any chance I can get.”

 

“There’ll be no more chances for you, Clegane,” Meryn interjected, a sneer twisting his ugly face as he took a few swift steps forward in what he probably believed was a threatening manner. “You think we didn’t hear about how you were surprised by the king and Lord Stark alone with Lady Sansa? She’ll be locked in the Tower of the Hand at all times from now on, you can bet on that. You should’ve lifted her skirts and taken her against a wall when you had your chance, dog. It’s too late now.”

 

“Go fuck yourself, Meryn,” Sandor snarled in his face. He had never liked the man yet hearing him talking so made him hate him even more. Blood was violently pumping through his veins and he could almost hear his temples throbbing. If he stayed but a heartbeat longer, there was no doubting he’d soon lose his temper and as there was nothing to gain from killing Meryn, Sandor turned around, grasped his wineskin and strode away.

 

 _Seven bloody hells!_ he mused once he had calmed himself enough that he could think straight again. With far more energy than needed, he climbed a flight of stairs, his jaw set so tightly it hurt. It was unbearable to face it but the fucking bugger _was_ right. Sandor would never meet the little bird by herself again and who knows, perhaps he’d never get to see her at all - even from afar! - until the bloody day he died. As the idea hit him, the man cursed aloud and turned off to the kitchen. He would need another wineskin _very soon_ , he realised.

 

Being robbed of Sansa’s presence forever: what a horrible fate that would be to one so obsessed with the girl. However, who gave a shit about the sufferings of a misbehaved mongrel who yearned for a share of his master’s choicest meal? Sandor had received the kick in the ribs any dog deserved at such an instance and no one would care to know how he fared afterwards as long as he kept his place by his masters’ feet and did his bloody _duty_. The prospect of doing just that disgusted him to no end and he threw his empty wineskin onto the floor as he entered the kitchen, cursing under his breath. Where did the damned kitchen maids hide the buggering wine again? Would two skins be enough?

 

It was pretty damned surprising the bloody Hand had not tried to kill Sandor when he had stumbled upon him and his very sweet daughter on that twice-cursed afternoon. Sansa had interposed herself between them, begging her father not to hurt him in the most dramatic fashion possible. _Crazy little bird_ , Sandor thought, a weak smile curling his lips as he exited the kitchen with three wineskins. The absurdity of the scene had not escaped him. Still, his heart had swelled at seeing how protective that feeble and helpless maiden could become if she feared for him. While in some twisted way, it had pleased him to witness her react so, he had not been foolish enough to truly be glad of what was taking place. On the good side though – because there was one for once - it had soon been clear enough that the king, his Hand and Barristan Selmy had missed by an eye blink their _chance_ of seeing how fucking passionately dogs can kiss when they’re with the right woman.

 

“What by the gods is going on here?” the king had roared at catching sight of them. Judging by the redness of his face, there had been no question the man had been displeased at surprising them together alone in a deserted corridor but strangely, he had also seemed unsettled, as if he hadn’t expected to be disobeyed in the least. “A secret rendezvous!? Seven hells but what did you think, Clegane? I thought you had understood that _no contact_ was to be allowed between you and Lady Sansa!” he had exclaimed in fury while striding toward Sandor so brusquely that the latter had flinched slightly at seeing him approach. Once he had gotten about a step from him though, the king had halted and calmed down faintly. With a sigh, he had glanced down before shaking his head and raising narrowed eyes to Sandor, his mouth pulled into a severe frown. “Given the philtre, your desire to speak with that young lady is quite understandable of course and I _do_ have sympathy for you but your orders were _very, very_ clear,” he had added gruffly in a mix of reproach and dejection.

 

It was a wonder Sandor had managed not to appear too relieved at hearing the trifles King Robert was grousing about. No one had glimpsed his dirty paws on the girl’s dainty waist and burned lips on her pure, white skin or else the man wouldn’t have made such fuss over a trivial conversation. Nevertheless, Ned _bloody_ Stark didn’t merely get offended - oh, no he didn’t. For once in his stuck-up life, the sad bugger had lost his composure and exploded in the same breath King Robert had shut his mouth. Pointing a finger at Sandor, he had yelled in his face, telling him that he had no right to talk to his daughter or even approach her, that she was too young, too naïve, too highborn for the likes of him. As for the king, he had all but forgotten his previous outburst at seeing his friend react so and had begun being reasonable instead. Almost believable in his new role, he had kept a hand over Stark’s upper arm in an attempt to soothe him - and also to prevent him from getting too near Sandor.

 

“They were chatting, Ned! Nothing unseemly happened. Calm yourself: who knows if anyone is hearing us as we speak? We’ll sort this out in my solar later,” he had kept repeating.

 

Sandor had almost barked a hoarse laugh at hearing the man’s affirmation. He hadn’t fucked the little bird - that was true enough - yet that hadn’t prevented him from being as hard as a rock moments earlier. He’d have ravished her days ago if the girl hadn’t been so shy and demure, that was as certain as the sun rising every fucking morning and people dying at the end of their lives.

 

Throughout the whole scene, Sansa’s eyes had shone with tears. The poor thing had been too petrified to move even an inch but when her father had bidden her to head to her room, she had bravely shaken her head, apparently adamant about not abandoning her old hound to his wrath. Stark’s eyes had darkened at her response and Sandor had seen how useless her resistance was. It would only get her more deeply into trouble.

 

“Do as he says, girl,” he had told her, laying a hand on her shoulder without thinking. The glare he had received from that bloody overprotective father of hers had served as a reminder though and he had removed it with the same haste one did when grasping something he had not expected to be burning hot.

 

“Don’t touch her!” the Hand had hissed and Sandor had been slightly taken aback by the heat hidden under the usually icy veneer. A part of him had almost been impressed.

 

Moments later, Sansa had fled crying to her room, shortly followed by her father who was dragging the trembling servant girl the little bird had as a friend by the arm. Sandor himself had been brought to the royal solar, flanked by the king and Barristan Selmy, and then the true torture had begun. For at least an hour, he had been scolded by King Robert the same buggering way a squire caught spying on his master’s bathing chambermaids through a peephole would. Over and over, the man had repeated the same bloody complaints and directives using the exact extremely irritating tone a benevolent father would when teaching his son a well deserved lesson. He was disappointed, had trusted Sandor, didn’t know if he could believe in his words anymore - _and_ _so fucking on_. Sandor was so irked by the king’s attitude that when Ned Stark had made his appearance in the solar some time later, he had been almost relieved by the man’s red-hot anger. His attitude was something he was accustomed to and knew how to deal with at least.

 

 _Still, what a fucking mess this is,_ Sandor thought as he strode through a long and dark corridor.

 

From the moment his peaceful time with Sansa had been disturbed, he had barely been given the occasion to utter a single word by anyone. Nobody had cared to hear what he had to say for himself but that had been all for the better in the end. Indeed, what defence did he have? _None_ \- unless he lied of course. But why bother? He had only to stay silent and let the king and his Hand speak. Their desire that nothing had happened apart from a private conversation was so strong that they seemingly couldn’t even consider that the dog and the maiden might have done anything apart from stand at a respectable distance while exchanging a few innocent words. That was all the two men were willing to accept and Sandor had been in no mood to give them a dose of reality.

 

 _Did I really gain anything from my silence though? Perhaps I should’ve told them the whole bloody truth. I’d be at the same damned point and at least I’d have gained the satisfaction of seeing their faces turn ashen as they saw their beliefs crumble upon themselves._ The notion was folly and Sandor realised it even as it came to his mind. He’d have been exiled if he had opened his mouth and let the mucky words out – or mayhap even worse… Still he was frustrated by every fucking aspect of the situation and there was apparently no way out of it.

 

 _Seven buggering hells,_ the man thought as he entered the middle bailey, his whole body heavy with lassitude. There was only one thought that kept him stepping ahead: the prospect of finding a good spot to sit in and get so fucking drunk that he forgot his very name. Still, in the meantime there was no reason he couldn’t assuage his thirst and therefore Sandor took a long swig out of one of his wineskins while looking around in search of the place that would see him fall into oblivion. Cast in shadows and moonlight alike, the bailey was empty of men at this late hour. A poet might have called the place beautiful but Sandor had never understood any of those bloody sissies. Despite that, something did catch his eye in the darkness         that stretched before him: _the Tower of the Hand_ , standing powerfully at its centre.

 

At the sight, the man’s eyes shone with embittered longing. The little bird was _there_ , somewhere, although he couldn’t see her and the notion pained him as much as it soothed him. It was queer how ambivalent females could make males - even ones as logical and down-to-earth as Sandor. The notion was exasperating; how could he lose his time daydreaming when he had always been naught but a man of action? Yet here he was, alone in the buggering middle bailey, his heart fluttering as he looked at a stupid man-made tower. _It’s bloody ridiculous_ , he mused as he sat over an old barrel. However, no matter how much he wished it otherwise, there was nothing he could do about how he felt and so Sandor slumped his large frame over his new seat and quickly proceeded to drink as if there were no tomorrow.

 

For a very long time, the man gazed at the old stone of the tower trying to picture how Sansa would look nude in her bed. Did she sleep unclothed? Chances were she didn’t but she would still be naked under her garb and the notion was enough to heat his blood. One only had to tear the fabric of her robe apart to discover the wonders that lay hidden underneath.

 

Similar thoughts turned in Sandor’s head for at least an hour. By then, he had grown pretty hard and since he had gotten quite drunk also, he was starting to contemplate taking himself in hand right where he was. No one was there to see what he did anyhow, or if some unlucky bastard did come around, who would dare bother _the Hound_ as he pleasured himself in the dead of the night? _No one_ , Sandor mused as he brought his hands to his groin to unlace himself. Yet just as he was seizing the strings of his breeches, he eyed some movement on one the Tower’s balconies.

 

 _Who might that be?_ he wondered, squinting and bracing his back. _What if?..._ Sandor began, not daring to finish his own thought for fear of seeing his hopes crushed as had so often happened in his life. For once though, it was not to be. All his craziest fancies seemed to become reality in an instant when he realised the small, pale shape he was discerning in the distance was indeed none other than _her_. _Seven Hells_ , Sandor mused, a disbelieving smile forming on his lips.

 

“Little bird,” he hissed under his breath in the same instant, rising and striding nearer. “ _Little bird_!”

 

The girl was standing at the edge of the balcony, her frail hands laid over the stone railing and the thin fabric of her nightgown flowing around her shoulders. In the state he was in, it was hard for Sandor to gauge how high she was. Ten yards? Fifteen? It didn’t matter, really. Even from down where he was, she was breathtaking; a fucking vision from above.

 

As he approached, the little bird heard the sound of his voice and steps and lowered her eyes to him. When she recognised him, she raised both her hands to her mouth, apparently shocked. Sandor couldn’t stop a grin from twisting his ugly face at witnessing her reaction. She was seemingly as glad as she was horrified by his impromptu visit but wasn’t it exactly what one could expect from a maiden at such an instant? Sandor wasn’t bothered in the least at seeing how nervous his presence made her. Truth be told, he enjoyed the knowledge that he could affect her so deeply.

 

Snorting with satisfaction, the man walked toward Sansa, feeling as if time had stopped. All he could hear was the sound of the soft breeze that enveloped him and it seemed to him as if the silence of the bailey was so thick and heavy, it had turned him completely deaf.

 

A moment later, he had gotten right under the little bird and was peering up hungrily at the thin shape of her body as she leaned over the balustrade. “I miss you,” she mouthed. Sandor barely heard her soft whisper but sound was unnecessary. She had missed him: had any woman ever missed _him_ before?

 

That was too much. He needed to be with her, to smell her, to touch her. Was that tower so bloody high that he couldn’t reach her… that he couldn’t climb it? _Fuck no_ , Sandor decided, a wicked spark passing through his eyes.

 

A heartbeat later, he was against the tower’s wall, testing the old stone against his palms and fingers. By the buggering Stranger, he could do it. In many places, the mortar was almost non-existent. There were enough holdings for him to make his way up - there was no doubting it.

 

Sure of himself, Sandor took a few steps back, staggering as he did, before gazing up at Sansa. He was so excited, his ears buzzed and his breath came shorter. “I’m coming,” he rasped as lowly as he could.

 

The little bird jumped and brought both her hands to her heart, shaking her head fiercely. Her eyes were wide and shining with disbelief and fear in the moonlight and Sandor smiled with fondness at the view.

 

“You’re alone?” he inquired, titling his head slightly to the side. Regardless of how fetching he found her reaction, the girl’s renewed anxiety had reminded him that being careful was quite crucial in their situation.

 

Biting at her lip, Sansa shifted hesitantly as if she wasn’t certain whether or not she should tell him the truth but then, she exhaled deeply and nodded almost reluctantly. The girl’s cheeks were all flushed and she had an air about her that reminded Sandor of a trapped animal which wasn’t sure what to make of its new captor. The man barked a rough laugh at that. Naught would stop him now, whatever she thought of it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> New chapter all fresh from the oven! Can’t wait for you to read it and tell me what you think!

**Sandor**

 

The stones were rough against Sandor’s hands as he began his climb but the faint pain it caused him didn’t bother him in the least. His skin was just as rough and the prize he would get from his ascent was well worth the trouble. Many times, he cut himself along his way but apart from cursing under his breath, Sandor did naught but keep on going. Every once and again, he’d hear the little bird gasp in fear when he almost lost his footing and as he got higher, he could see her move nervously over her balcony. She was scared for him and Sandor loved the idea to no end. He would need to comfort her once he got to her side and that was certainly something to look forward to. Her nightgown had seemed so thin from down in the bailey and the prospect of touching her young and pure body with no more barriers as he caressed her gave him a new burst of energy every time he thought upon it. And he was almost _there_.

 

“I’m coming, little bird,” he announced while finally settling a hand over the railing.

 

The girl let out a muffled cry when he struggled to reach it with the other and swiftly caught his arm to help him. Sandor chuckled at that. Did she truly believe she could prevent him from falling if he was to lose his grasp? That was bloody ridiculous! She’d have more chance of getting dragged down with him and meeting the hard, beaten earth below than making any difference where that was concerned.

 

“All’s fine, Sansa,” he breathed tiredly as he lifted himself against the balustrade.

 

The girl took a step back to leave him the space he needed but Sandor stopped her with a hand around her upper arm even before he had brought his legs to the other side and pulled her to him. “My pretty little bird,” he whispered without trying to mask the longing he felt while burying his face in her hair.

 

“No, get over here first! You’ll kiss me afterwards!” Sansa begged him, struggling against his hold.

 

Judging by the colour of her cheeks and the shaking of her limbs, the poor girl was on the verge of panic. Sandor didn’t care to put her nerves to the test and thus, he let her go and swung himself over the railing without more delay. Once he was next to her, Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, tears shining in her eyes, and jumped into his arms.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” she asked in a quiet sob. “You nearly fell down a few times!”

 

“No, I didn’t,” Sandor lied, while stroking her back with one hand and petting her hair with the other. He could barely believe he was truly holding her but her warm little body was indeed against him and that was as near to perfection as he had gotten in days. “And I’m here now –with you.”

 

“But Sandor! If anyone catches us again - here especially! - can you imagine what will happen?” the little bird asked in a trembling whisper, raising her head from his chest. She had shed a few tears, Sandor noted at the wetness of his tunic where her cheek had just rested.

 

“Nothing worse than what is already taking place, little bird. Your father won’t ever let you out of that bloody tower from now on, you realise that, don’t you? I’d rather get caught with you here than never see you again,” Sandor replied softly while settling both his hands over her shoulders and bringing his face close to hers. He wanted her to understand his words, to see by the sheer strength of his gaze how serious he was about them but she was far too beautiful for him to keep his focus. Besides, the fabric of her nightgown was just as delicate as he had hoped and naught could have been more distracting. As he ran his fingers over it, Sandor could almost feel the silkiness of her skin and the realisation made his cock twitch in his breeches. “Little bird,” he muttered, his own voice sounding strangely delighted to his ears, as if the very fact that she existed was astounding to him.

 

Kissing her was all he could think about at that instant but as he leaned toward her, the man reeled and Sansa didn’t miss it. “But you’re… _you’re drunk_!” she gasped, recoiling from him with her mouth opened in shock. “I had already noticed you smelled of wine but-”

 

Laying a hand just over the little bird’s shoulder against the wall that stood behind her, Sandor let out a snort. His head was turning slightly what with the effort of climbing up the buggering tower and all the wine he had drunk but it would pass soon enough. “What did you believe a man of my sort did with his free time, little bird? Drink tea and eat lemon cakes?” he sneered, while caressing her soft cheek and neck with the knuckles of his free hand.

 

“No, of course not…” the girl admitted in a hushed complaint. Her cheeks had coloured a deep pink and she couldn’t seem to meet his gaze, as if she was abashed that he could make fun of her like this – or perhaps horrified by his coarse and dissolute ways.

 

“Don’t make a fuss over this, Sansa,” Sandor bade her with amusement. He was feeling less dizzy now and chanced removing his palm from the wall to circle both his hands around her face instead. “I’m here for you, to _see_ _you_.”

 

The notion didn’t appear to please her as much as he had hoped. “I know and I _am_ happy to see you too but-”

 

“Hush and kiss me,” the man cut her off before she managed to truly get him annoyed with all that chirping.

 

Without waiting for her to do it herself, he pressed his lips to hers. The gesture did its work of appeasing her and the girl relaxed and raised her arms around his neck. She was a warm little creature under all those layers of good behaviour and pristine education. Sandor could sense it in the way she kissed him back and became tender under his hands. He was devouring her with his palms, trailing them down the arms that clung to him until he got to her ribs but he didn’t stop there. Her waist was so slim, it still amazed him when he reached it and if Sandor stretched his fingers down a little he could feel the hem of her underclothes through her nightgown. He longed to slide his fingers under it, to get to know the softness of the hair that grew hidden between her delicious thighs.

 

“Oh, I missed you, Sandor,” the little bird murmured against his lips, finally truly giving in and letting her guard down though it was obvious she was still agitated. “I believed I’d never see you again!”

 

“I’m here, Sansa. No need to think about that,” Sandor rasped before kissing her lips again. Despite the assurance with which he had spoken, the man had in truth shared the girl’s fear and quite a lot at that. And besides – worst of all – who was to say that he’d _ever_ get to touch her again after tonight at all?

 

“You should’ve lifted her skirts and taken her against a wall when you had your chance, dog.” Meryn Trant’s harsh words suddenly came back to his mind.

 

No matter how much Sandor hated the man, at the remembrance of their recent altercation he couldn’t help but feel a sense of urgency. The bugger had had a point: Sandor couldn’t keep on letting every opportunity he got pass under his nose without acting or he would come to regret his passivity in the bitterest way possible. The girl was his for the time being, or at least ready to be and it’d be insane not to make the most of it while it was still possible.

 

Resolute, the man lifted Sansa from the ground and gathered her in his arms, which made her squeak in surprise

 

“What… what are you doing?” she asked, as he began opening the door that led to her chamber, her nervousness building once more.

 

“Shhh, little bird,” Sandor whispered in her ear. The balcony was no place to undress her and seeing her without her nightgown was suddenly all he could think about.

 

The girl was taut in his hold as they entered the warm dimness of her room but she let him bring her to her bed without resisting. The place was very quiet as was apparently the rest of the tower. It was pretty late already and everyone in her household was most likely already asleep apart from a few guards and logically they weren’t posted at her door. They’d be waiting at the Tower of the Hand’s entrance, where foes were to be expected. Sandor smiled at the thought. No one had seen his move coming and the idea was fucking delectable.

 

When Sandor settled Sansa over the soft blankets of her featherbed, the girl’s breath wascoming short. She was shivering and her face was so flushed, her skin was almost as red as her hair. The sight of her maidenly anxiety was somehow heartbreaking and stirring at the same time. Sandor wanted to comfort her as much as fuck her but who said both couldn’t be done simultaneously?

 

“Little bird, you smell so bloody sweet,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her over the neck as he loosened his hold on her.

 

As he did, she rose on her elbows and gazed at him with wide eyes. She was undeniably apprehensive but also, seemingly curious. That was good. Very, very good.

 

Sandor didn’t rise fully and got to his knees next to the bed instead. He was as hard as a rock and there was no need to make his arousal too obvious just yet. For now, he needed to put the girl at ease and make her yearn for more.

 

“You’re too breathtaking for words, Sansa. Take my bloody word on that,” he told her in a hoarse murmur, eating her with his stare as he unbuckled his sword belt and lowered it noiselessly to the ground. The girl made a splendid sight with her hair all messed-up and falling in rebellious tendrils over the pure white cloth of her demure nightgown and Sandor longed to see her even more dishevelled with some of her long curls plastered over her sweaty, naked flesh.

 

“Sandor,” she began hesitantly, biting anxiously at her lip.

 

“What?” the man answered back but even before she had a chance to continue, he was climbing onto the bed to get by her side, settling a hand over the thigh farthest from him and pressing her against him. The girl gasped but he silenced her with a soft kiss.

 

“This is terribly dangerous, Sandor!” she managed to whisper meekly through his kisses after a few seconds. “We… we shouldn’t!”

 

“Be quiet, little bird, and no one will know,” he told her quietly, circling her waist with a strong hand.

 

Then, Sandor trailed his palm down until it cupped the curve that led from her hip to her bottom and as he did, he found the smooth expanse of her throat with his mouth and bit gently at it. The girl moaned softly at that and threw her head back.

 

Sandor smiled. No matter her reluctance, she was opening for him like a flower under the sun and all he had to do was caress her the right way. She resisted on principle and because of that ridiculously stuck-up upbringing she had had but the truth was she yearned for _it_ as much as he did.

 

The realisation comforted Sandor and he didn’t hesitate before sliding one of his hands over her mouth-watering teats. The girl gasped as he did and although she tensed at first, she shortly softened under his touch and even let him kiss her luscious lips again. _See, her resistance never lasts,_ Sandor mused with a grin while kneading her breasts with increased firmness. They were so perfect under his palm; he could feel her hard little nipples point against the roughness of his skin through the fine cloth of her garb. Gently at first, Sandor began pinching them but then he let his fingers get more vigorous and to his delight, the girl didn’t seem to mind at all. She was squirming under him, her eyes closed as if in a trance and was mewing and purring like a kitten. _She enjoys it,_ he told himself, sensing that his most basic instincts were about to take over completely. Would she enjoy his cock just as much? The mere idea was too bloody much for him. He needed to feel her bare skin and to see her in all her naked glory and most of all, to fuck her senseless.

 

Without further delay, Sandor pushed down her collar and freed her flesh, breaking her laces in some places on the way. The skin he uncovered was as pure and new as fresh porcelain and Sandor nearly forgot to breathe at the sight. An instant later, one of her pink little buds was in his mouth and he was playing with it with his lips, teeth and tongue.

 

“Sandor, please…” the girl breathed, sounding disconcerted as she shifted against him but the man silenced her once more with a kiss. All the while he never abandoned her soft teats which he kept well in hand, teasing their nipples between his thumb and forefinger until they were stiff and pointy. The little bird shifted weakly under him but after a few soft, unintelligible sounds of protest, she gave in and circled both her arms around his neck in defeat.

 

Satisfied, Sandor grasped a handful of her nightgown and brought it over her belly to uncover long, lean legs. Her skin was white and glowing under the firelight and Sandor nearly died of arousal at discovering how perfect she was in every way. Only thin underclothes remained over her hips, hiding the sweetness he craved so much to bury himself in. _Seven Hells but what the fuck am I waiting for?_ Sandor mused, biting at his lip and smirking before freeing himself from his tunic and throwing it onto the floor.

 

“What… what are you doing, Sandor?” the little bird asked nervously while covering her nude breasts with her nightgown. She was vainly trying to put it back in place and glancing at it in stupefaction, as if she had not realised before what Sandor had made of it.

 

“Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you,” the man promised, grasping the newly smoothed out cloth from her hands and pulling it over her head.

 

The girl hadn’t expected his move and didn’t even struggle but once the fabric had joined Sandor’s tunic on the floor, she brought her arms over her torso to hide her perfect little body and jerked away from him. “Sandor!”

 

“Don’t be scared, little bird: I told you I wouldn’t hurt you, didn’t I? All I want is to make you mine in _truth_.”

 

The idea didn’t seem to enchant her. “But… what… what do you mean by that?” she demanded, a spark of fear passing through her eyes.

 

As innocent as the little bird was, it was evident no matter her previous question, she had understood well enough what he was getting at.

 

When he moved toward her again, she jumped and flinched away from him. “Sandor! We can’t!” she contested, panic rising in her.

 

Sandor was not listening to her; he was far too drunk and inflamed with desire to hear a word of what she said. He wanted her so badly, his balls throbbed. Without heeding her, he pushed the girl’s little paws away to kiss her perfect round teats again. Their nipples were still as stiff as they had been and standing up in the air as if they had been begging for his mouth to suck at them once more. No matter what she pretended, her body was betraying her arousal and that was all Sandor needed as confirmation that he was in the right. With that in mind, he began unlacing his breeches and pushing his engorged cock against her. The little bird’s eyes grew wide with fear at that.

 

“No…” she murmured but still Sandor was deaf to her calls and kept ridding himself of his breeches.

 

He would have her tonight.

 

“No!” she cried, this time louder, before biting at his neck as hard as she could.

 

The gesture surprised him and he backed away slightly, his freed member hanging against her belly. “What is it? Why did you do that, Sansa?” he asked irritably.

 

The girl hesitated for a moment, as if she wasn’t sure whether she should regret her own action or be mad at him. She was panting and he could see tears pearling in her eyes. After a few long seconds, she finally found her tongue again. “We can’t do… do _that_! I’m a maiden and need to remain as such until my wed-”

 

Sandor didn’t let her finish and snorted angrily at her excuse. “Want to stay intact for your rightful husband, do you?” Sandor snapped, feeling the burnt corner of his mouth twitch.

 

Dumbstruck and aghast, the little bird didn’t answer. Her mouth was slightly open and her eyes shone with hurt but her reaction didn’t assuage Sandor’s newborn anger.

 

“So the fucking truth finally comes out,” he hissed between his teeth. “The attention I give you is fine enough so long as once you grow tired of it all, you can go on with your bloody haughty life and marry whoever – Joffrey or any other damned lord highborn enough– your father deems worthy of spreading your legs to take you, legitimately _of course_.”

 

“No! You don’t understand! It’s just that… that…”

 

Sandor was past understanding. His head was spinning from all the wine he had imbibed and he was frustrated, terribly frustrated. “You don’t want me?” he asked but then he let out a short wry laugh and added, not trusting his own ears as he uttered the cursed word: “You don’t _love_ me? With the philtre, I’d thought you’d be beyond all those proper considerations your buggering septa has filled your head with-”

 

“It’s not that!” the little bird retorted. “I _do_ love you-”

 

“Then why don’t you want me to take you, ugh? You don’t want a _bloody dog_ to be your first man, is that it?” Sandor asked in a harsh whisper as he backed away from her, eyes narrowed and burning. His gaze trailed down her body. If he had been a crueller man, he could have fucked her right there and then, as helpless as she was, almost naked in bed with him. He didn’t believe she would’ve cried out for help if it had come to that. Still for some reason, he grasped his erect member in hand and hid it in his breeches.

 

“Don’t be mad!” the girl begged in a small, distraught voice while clutching at his shoulders. She was on the verge of tears.

 

Sandor eyed her suspiciously. After a heartbeat or two of that, the strength of his stare became too much for her to withstand and she averted her gaze. His mouth twitched at that but when the girl noticed he was now looking at her nude breasts, she removed her hands from his shoulders to cover her nakedness and the gesture brought an even deeper scowl to the man’s face. He stood up at once. “I won’t bother you anymore, Sansa,” he spat as he grabbed his sword belt from the floor.

 

“No, Sandor, wait!” she exclaimed, seemingly immediately regretting having spoken so loudly. She continued in a more hushed tone while gathering some of her blanket over her bare body. “You don’t understand!”

 

“ _I_ don’t understand?” the man repeated, halting to glare at her. “If you truly _loved_ me – as you pretend you do - you’d want to become mine and wouldn’t hesitate to give me your bloody precious maidenhead. You’d beg me even. You know why they say a man claims his wife when he takes her?” Sandor paused to give her a chance to answer but the girl stayed silent. “It’s because he _does_ , it’s simple as that,” he answered for her an instant later. “He makes her his in a way no one can dispute afterwards and that’s exactly what you don’t want me to do.”

 

“I do want to be yours but not like that!”

 

“How then? In the platonic way the ladies of your fucking songs promise their eternal love to the bloody knights that drool over them? And you’d like me to admire you from afar just like those fools, I’d wager? To always be there for you even after you’ve wed the king’s damned heir, all the while never asking for anything in exchange for my fucking devotion?” Sandor snorted a short, dry laugh at that and began walking slowly toward the bed. “The problem, little bird,” he started in a tone both calm and intent at once, “is that it wouldn’t be _you_ being mine but quite the opposite in fact. Although I can be yours in some ways, I’m a man, Sansa, and real men are not to be possessed as females are. Real men conquer their women and that’s exactly what I’d do to you.”

 

The girl was wordlessly staring at him, her bottom lip trembling a little and her arms folded over her cover as she hugged herself.

 

Sandor narrowed his eyes at her, sighed and shook his head. “So there it is, plain as day. Nothing will ever work between us if we don’t see eye to eye on that,” he rasped flatly, putting his tunic back on. “It’s best I go now. Pray to the Seven hard enough and perhaps the bloody pyromancer will find a cure to your affliction and mine. And then this old dog won’t be sniffing around you anymore.”

 

The girl gasped and made a little sobbing sound but Sandor wasn’t looking her way anymore and didn’t turn back either as he heard it. That there was no hope for them to find common ground had just been made clear enough, yet he knew how fucking weak  he could be where Sansa Stark was concerned. Gazing her way might break all his resolve and therefore, he went out her door – forcing his stare to stay straight ahead - and climbed off her balcony, all the while cursing the potion and life itself every tedious step of the fucking way. Yet truth be told, Sandor was not overly surprised by the buggering turn of events. He had been expecting something to go wrong somehow from the very beginning of their _affair_ , or whatever that thing between them should be called. That’s how life had always been for him: cruel and most of all, so bloody disappointing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi girls!
> 
> Here’s a little chapter for you all! I hope you enjoy! :)

**Sansa**

 

“Oh, it’s impossible!” Sansa cried desperately at seeing the knot she had allowed her thread to become without realising it. Frowning, she tossed her embroidery ring onto her lap and sighed.

 

For the last hour or so, she had been trying to absorb herself in her work yet she was far too distracted and nervous to keep her thoughts on her actions or do anything properly it seemed. Her stitches were not as fine as they usually were and it was the second time since she had begun that she had gotten her thread all messed up. She would need to undo her last few stitches again. It was not like her at all to be so inattentive but there wasn’t much she could do to control all the crazy directions her mind flew in this afternoon.

 

About an hour before, Sansa had sent Jeyne to Maegor's Holdfast to find out if the queen’s maids could give her some blue thread since she had just finished her own and didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to continue her work. Or at least that’s what people were supposed to believe, for the truth was far different. Indeed, the girl had in reality managed to convince her friend to help her once again to get in touch with Sandor. It hadn’t been easy to convince her though. The other girl had hesitated a long time before agreeing to Sansa’s demand. She had been reluctant to disobey Sansa’s father a second time but most of all, not eager to face the Hound at all.

 

“Please, Jeyne! I’m begging you!” she had pleaded, clutching the young commoner by the sleeves when she had at first firmly refused.

 

“I don’t want to talk to him! He scares me, Sansa!” Jeyne had whined. “He always has but now that you’ve been caught while I was watching for you, he does even more. What if he decides to beat me for not having warned you in time? Or worse, _kill me_?”

 

“He won’t do you any harm, Jeyne!” Sansa had retorted, annoyed at her friend’s silly suppositions. “On the contrary, he’ll be glad that you bring him a message from me. And you don’t have to exchange a single word with him: just give him the letter I wrote and walk away, that’s all! In fact, it would be preferable that you’re not be seen with him by anyone so the faster it’s done, the better!” Without waiting for a reply, Sansa had handed the piece of parchment to the other girl. It had been folded so many times that it could easily be concealed without having to be hidden in a pouch or under layers of skirts and Sansa had sealed it very carefully with wax not long before she had sent for her friend. The message it contained was extremely confidential and if anyone - even Jeyne! - read it, she would die of mortification on the spot!

 

Thankfully Jeyne hadn’t been too curious about what it contained. “Why do you want to get in contact with him? You know you can’t see him anymore,” she had simply demanded as she eyed the letter with suspicion.

 

“I only wish to tell him goodbye…” Sansa had whispered, heat rising to her cheeks. She wasn’t used to lying and hated the feeling it gave her. Even now that she was alone in her room and thinking back upon it all, the idea that she had been untruthful with a friend with whom she had always shared all her secrets still saddened her, yet telling her of her plans had been simply unthinkable.

 

 _What is taking her so long?_ Sansa wondered, raising her gaze to peer at the door. She had finally managed to undo the knot of thread and was resuming working on the flowery pattern she had begun that morning. Hopefully she wouldn’t meet more difficulty where that was concerned. _But what about Sandor?_ she mused. Would he prove as difficult as her embroidery? The comparison was ridiculous and brought a smile to her lips. Still, her amusement quickly vanished when she remembered the events of yesterday. Everything had gone so wrong so fast…

 

Sansa hadn’t meant to hurt Sandor when she had refused to give herself to him and she certainly didn’t want him to take her restraint for a sign she didn’t genuinely love him since naught could be more untrue. Sandor had put so much effort into getting a chance to see her again – going as far as to climb the Tower of the Hand! The notion was awfully romantic and enough to bring butterflies to Sansa’s belly, however in reality, having a man as imposing as the Hound appear in one’s chamber could prove a nerve-wracking experience, especially if even innocent contacts with said man were completely prohibited. And Sandor had been extremely forward in his approach… Kisses and soft caresses of her clothed body hadn’t been enough for him anymore. No, he had wanted more and had not waited for her approval to carry her to her bed and proceed to undress her. Sansa had been completely overwhelmed by the whole situation and the mix of sensations that had assailed her as he explored her nude skin in the most licentious way possible. Nevertheless, naught had caught her off guard as much as feeling the hardness of him rub against her, the skin warm and sticky against her bare belly. The mere remembrance was still enough to make the girl blush madly. All her instincts had told her this was too much and that she had to put a stop to what was taking place _immediately_. She had always been told to never let anyone touch her inappropriately, that girls who allowed men into their beds outside of wedlock were to be despised. Her maidenhead was precious and needed to be protected, for it was a present meant for her lord husband on her wedding night and no one else. After having these precepts repeated over and over again throughout her life, it was only natural that a highborn maiden should be inclined to follow them, no matter whom she was with.

 

It was hard for Sansa to be sure of how she felt regarding it all. In some way, the thought of how forceful the Hound had been with her still unnerved her. He had been deaf to her pleas when she had asked him to stop and the girl had had no other choice but to bite him to make him cease undressing himself and afterwards, once his attention had finally been drawn to her words rather than her body, the man hadn’t really tried to put himself in her place. On the contrary, he had been mad that she refused him and assumed all sorts of things without giving her a chance to explain herself.

 

It was to be expected that a grown man would be interested in more than what she had been willing to offer - Sansa understood that reality very well – and she had thus forgiven Sandor his lack of control from the moment he had recoiled from her. Now though, what she was left with was the guilt of not having been willing to go as far as he wanted and most of all, fear that he had mistaken her refusal for proof that she didn’t truly love him. The mere idea that he might believe such a thing was enough to bring tears to her eyes. She couldn’t stand the prospect that he could possibly doubt her feelings for him and that because of his false conception, the intensity of his own love decreased. They were not allowed to see each other and that was already unbearable enough but at least to assuage her pain, Sansa needed to be sure of the Hound’s unconditional love for her. Given the forbidden nature of their relationship and the lack of options their situation offered, the girl had concluded that morning that there was only one way she could achieve that goal. She would have to let Sandor take her maidenhead. By giving him exactly what he had desired, she would combat his misgivings in the most concrete and undeniable fashion there was and although her stomach pulled nervously at the prospect, her decision was made and naught could change her mind at that point. Anyhow, even if she was to waver, it would be too late by now. The letter she had written Sandor was probably already in his possession and the message it contained wasn’t hard to interpret in the least.

 

_‘Sandor, I love you. I’m sorry about yesterday. Come to my chamber tonight and I’ll be yours, exactly as you wanted and as I know I’m meant to be.’_

Would he answer her demand and show up tonight? Sansa hoped he would, of course, but that didn’t stop her heart from pounding madly whenever images of the Hound climbing the Tower of the Hand, his eyes gleaming with lust, reached her mind. Doing… _it_ wasn’t something she truly felt ready for. It was far too grown-up for her, something you did when you were an adult and Sansa still felt mostly like a child although she had flowered and gained a womanly figure throughout the many moons she had spent in King’s Landing. Prior to the philtre and most of all, to yesterday’s events, she had always believed she would have many years to wait before she got married and learned the mysterious ways of love yet now, she was faced with the fact that the latter would happen much sooner than she had anticipated. However, frightening as it was, that she let Sandor _claim_ her as he had himself worded it was necessary - essential even. Sansa wanted him to know how strong her love for him was and granting him the most precious gift she had to offer was undeniably the best way to achieve it. If she didn’t go along with it and her reluctance destroyed their beautiful love, she would only have herself to blame afterwards.

 

“Sansa!” a call suddenly came from the opening door.

 

Not having expected anyone to enter just then, Sansa jumped in her seat, inadvertently stabbing her needle into her forefinger and letting out a small cry at the bright pain it brought.

 

The newcomer was Jeyne, of course. “What is it? Are you all right, Sansa?” she asked, puzzled, as she closed the door behind her.

 

“Oh, it’s nothing!” the girl replied, blushing at her clumsiness while staring dumbly at the drop of blood that was pearling on the curve of her finger. It had been years since she had been so inept as today while working on her embroidery and she was slightly ashamed to be caught doing so when praise was all she ever heard where stitches were concerned. “So?” she started, swiftly hiding her hand, as eager to take her friend’s attention from her accident as to know if Jeyne’s mission had been successful. “How did it go?”

 

“It went all right,” Jeyne said without much enthusiasm. “Here, I have your blue thread,” she added, settling the reel over the desk.

 

“And the letter?” Sansa whispered insistently, shifting so much that she was sitting at the very edge of her armchair. “Did you give it to Sandor?”

 

“Yes, I did,” the young commoner answered, her face wrinkling with distaste. “He was in the yard training with some other men and I had to hide for a long time before I could finally find him alone. It was so long and boring! When at last he headed for the armoury after about a half hour, I strode to him and put the letter in his hand.”

 

“How did he react?” Sansa demanded, jumping to her feet. “Did he seem curious? Happy? Angry?”

 

“I don’t know!” Jeyne replied, evidently irked. “I didn’t even look at him. I just gave him the letter and ran as fast as I could. I wasn’t interested in learning if he was furious that I failed in stopping your Lord Father from catching you.”

 

“I already told you: he’s not! You don’t have to fear him! In fact, he didn’t even mention your name when he…” Sansa trailed off, only now realising she had been about to denounce herself. Her breath caught in her throat at the notion.

 

“When he _what_?” the other girl asked, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.

 

Sansa gulped. “Forget it… I’m not even sure of what I was about to say myself,” she muttered nervously, averting her gaze from her friend.

 

After a long silence, Jeyne sighed and shook her head. “Well, if that’s all, I’ll leave you for now. My father has asked for my help with the organisation of the new dishes and I’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

 

Sansa nodded at that but then as Jeyne was about to shut the door behind her, she shook herself. “Thank you, Jeyne! Thank you so very much for your help!”

 

“You’re welcome, I guess. Although, I’m still not sure if I did the right thing to be honest,” the other girl said with a weak smile before vanishing from Sansa’s view.

 

For the rest of the day, Sansa felt as if she drifted in a strange fog. Every hour was as painfully long as it was dreadfully short. She didn’t know if she was looking forward to seeing Sandor and fixing their misunderstanding or fearful of what she was about to experience. Would it hurt? Would he be careful with her? Or most frightening of all, would he even show up at all? _No. It’s impossible. He loves me too much not to come when I’ve asked him myself, especially when he knows the lengths I’m now willing to go to,_ she kept repeating to herself. Yet, it was to no avail. Doubt had permeated her mind and she couldn’t rest easy now. She needed to know if he still loved her. And in the event he did, a whole other set of questions came to mind…

 

Her maids had undressed her, cleaned her and garbed her in a nightgown. Darkness had arrived and Sansa was left alone in her chamber, anxiously waiting. As the minutes slipped by, the possibility that the Hound might not join her at all was becoming increasingly more likely but she refused to consider it seriously. Yet, who was to say he was not so irked with her that he hadn’t even wished to read her letter? While the prospect was too painful to truly be considered, Sansa nonetheless couldn’t free herself of images of the Hound throwing her letter in the fire. What would she do if he had indeed disregarded her message? What option would she have then? _None_ …

 

Despite her initial agitation and worries, Sansa had gone to bed at some point and sleep was slowly but surely getting the better of her, dragging her into its sweet mist, when she heard a noise from outside her door. Immediately she sat up, her pulse going from calm to frantic in a heartbeat. In the same breath, her conscious mind was awakened so brusquely that she didn’t even get a chance to interpret any of the different thoughts that assailed her before she heard his voice:

 

“Little bird,” the Hound’s distinctive low rasp came from the balcony.

 

Her heart jumping to her throat, Sansa clutched at her cover and gathered it stiffly to her chest. She turned around to look at the door – watching it open wide - and there he was: the Hound, as imposing as ever, standing on the threshold. The light that came from the fireplace was very dim and barely lit him. All the girl could make out at first was the shape of his large body against the moonlit sky. Gradually though, her sight adjusted and she began to discern his features. They were strong, unforgiving and undeniably masculine at once and he was gazing at her with that hard stare of his, his face wearing the unreadable expression it so often did.

 

“Why so silent, Sansa? Aren’t you happy to see me?” he asked, a hint of reproach in his gravelly voice, after a moment of staring silently at her.

 

Realising how petrified she seemed, Sansa shook herself and spoke. “Oh, Sandor… Yes of course I _am_ happy!” she breathed while standing from her bed without letting go of her covers, her limbs trembling in a strange mix of anticipation, fear that she might displease him and excitement to be by his side. “I’m so sorry about yesterday… I didn’t want you to… to…”

 

“No need to be sorry,” he interjected nonchalantly, the shadow of a tired smile curling his lips.

 

Sansa’s muscles relaxed a little at that, yet she still was far from completely at ease. “But… I was so afraid that you-”

 

“Shhh, it’s all right now, I’m here,” he whispered, slowly coming her way.

 

Sansa had to fight to stop herself from recoiling from him. His presence was still so intimidating to her, no matter that she loved him. He was so tall and broad and fearsome with his scars and long black hair, all dressed in old, dark leather … His eyes were soft now though, or at least as soft as the eyes of a man as rough as he could become. In an instant, he was standing less than a foot from her, looking down at her with unhidden hunger, his chest moving up and down with every breath he took, each slow and deep. _He still loves me…_ Sansa mused at noticing the effect she had on him, relieved for an eye blink before she became worried for a totally different set of reasons. Suddenly self-conscious, she pulled the blanket she still had over her shoulders tighter around her.

 

Sandor smirked as he noticed her gesture and laid his large hands over her upper arms. “Girl, you’re wrapped up like a bloody newborn babe,” he muttered, gazing at the cover with mocking contempt. Then, he narrowed his eyes at Sansa, leaned closer to her and added in a hoarse whisper, “Don’t you want to hold me for real? To put those lithe arms of yours around me?”

 

Sansa giggled nervously at that and let her blanket fall to the ground with the same thrill that one feels just before jumping into the cold waters of a northern lake. There was no point in holding on to whatever semblance of protection she had at this point. And besides, she did want to be in his arms and to feel his love for her, so very, very much…

 

Snaking her arms around his torso, Sansa let go of her fear, pressed her head against his chest and sighed as she felt his own thick arms encircle her. “Sandor, I was afraid you thought I didn’t truly love you, that I didn’t want to be yours!” she murmured passionately after a few blissful seconds of simply enjoying his embrace without thinking of anything other than how perfect it was to be with him again.

 

“Really?” Sandor demanded with some surprise, while petting her long hair with one hand and keeping the other on the small of her back.

 

The contact of his powerful body was giving Sansa courage she didn’t usually have and she added boldly, blushing at her own words even as she spoke them and hiding her face in his chest: “Yes, really… and that fear made me realise that I do want to be… _yours_... not only in words but in actions too…”

 

At her confession, the Hound’s muscles stiffened slightly, and he loosened his hold on her. Raising a hand, he gently pushed her chin up with his fingers until they gazed at each other straight in the eyes. “You mean it? Because I won’t be told twice…” the man muttered, his stare suddenly piercing and shining in a way that made her think of a rabid dog. “I’ve been dying to have you for longer than you think. If you truly give me the right to, I’ll take you _tonight_ and there’ll be no coming back,” he warned her, speaking in an urgent but slow voice while tightening his grip on her.

 

Sansa bit at her lip. She couldn’t and didn’t truly want to step back now, not after everything that had taken place and the written promise she had sent Sandor this very morning. Yet, repeating the same words aloud while he looked at her seemed impossible and therefore she settled on telling him what she felt while hoping it would be enough to satisfy him. “Sandor… I love you…”

 

It did or at least it seemed to, for the man smiled and took her by the waist. “Little bird, you’re all I want… How the fuck could you ever have believed a buggering _insignificant_ little fight like the one we had would stop that?” he chided her gently. “And now, especially after I have received that sweet letter of yours, what kind of bloody halfwit I would be not to have run to your chamber as soon as I could? Seven Hells, Sansa! Nothing could have stopped me…” He paused and a wolfish spark passed through his eyes. “You know I was on duty tonight?”

 

Sansa’s eyes went wide. She hadn’t considered even for an instant the possibility that the Hound might be busy guarding the king. “You were? How… how come you’re here then?”

 

Sandor snorted a short laugh. “I managed to change shifts with Boros. The bugger was hard as fuck to convince though. I had to take two of his shifts for him to deign to accept.”

 

“Oh, but this is horrible! When will you rest?” Sansa cried, abashed at what her thoughtlessness had cost him. “I wish I’d thought you might not be available-”

 

“Little bird, don’t be sorry: you’re being fucking ridiculous here! Who the fuck needs rest when they can taste something as sweet as you?” Sandor cut her off within a mix of affront and mirth, his lips curved into a mocking, disbelieving half-grin. “Don’t you realise you’re offering me everything a man could ever wish for?” he added in a rough but intense whisper, raising a hand to her face to cup her cheek. “What kind of fucking idiot would I be to complain knowing _that_?” Then smiling smugly, he began caressing her bottom lip with his thumb while looking at it with undeniable interest. “I’ll take everything you’re willing to give me without question. Sansa: _you’re mine_ and I’ll prove it to you.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> New chapter! I hope you all enjoy! Please, tell me what you think. :)

**Sansa**

A shiver went through Sansa’s body. Hearing Sandor tell her face to face he intended to take her maidenhead while knowing it would all take place in a matter of minutes was nerve-racking to say the least.

 

Surprisingly though, the man didn’t seem in that much of a hurry. “Sansa… you’ve no idea how beautiful you are…” he was whispering while fondling her waist and ribs with possessive hands.

 

Perhaps he wanted to admire his conquest at length before moving to the next step? That certainly was what it looked like, judging by how intently he was gazing at her. His eyes were so piercing his scrutiny was enough to colour Sansa’s cheeks to a deep shade of pink. Nevertheless, and despite how timid she felt under his stare, there was no denying being the object of so much attention was thrilling. It was as if naught mattered to Sandor but her and Sansa wished the instant could last forever as she enjoyed being the centre of his world.

 

“Your father was a fool not to forbid you from wandering freely through the Red Keep before, do you know that?” the Hound advanced suddenly, breaking the silence of the night.

 

“Why should he have?” Sansa asked, frowning in confusion. In her eyes, her lord father was as faultless as any man was likely to get and she could hardly fathom that anyone wouldn’t agree with her vision of him.

 

“ _Why_?” Sandor repeated, disbelieving. “Don’t you see what you do to men? Philtre or not, you’ll drive any of us crazy just by walking around,” he was murmuring, his voice low and husky as he tightened his hands around her waist and brought his face nearer hers. “If I were your father, I’d have locked you in the Tower of the Hand a long time ago. No male is trustworthy around you.”

 

“No, don’t say that! It’s not true…” Sansa interjected, averting her eyes and jerking her head aside. Why did he have to drag all those other men into their intimacy? She didn’t wish to think of them any more than she wanted to believe the desire the Hound had for her was not unique. How could he claim such things when seconds before, Sansa had felt as if naught existed in the whole wide world but her and Sandor?

 

At witnessing her uneasiness, Sandor snorted a short dry laugh. “You’re so bloody naive. Even more than you look! I shouldn’t put you through what I have in mind knowing that, yet I want you too buggering much to be reasonable. Fate has been very cruel to you, Sansa. Not only have you been paired with an ugly and coarse bastard but I have no mercy for your innocence.”

 

Sansa didn’t know what she should add to his coarse statement and thus she stayed silent. The direction the conversation had taken was not one she relished in the least. Too ill at ease to even move, she was wordlessly staring at Sandor’s chest while waiting for the awkward moment to be over.

 

“Little bird…” the man rasped after a few long seconds of stillness, raising one of his hands to her chin and seizing it gently. “Look at me.”

 

With some reluctance, she obeyed and as she did, he kissed her very softly. In an eye blink, butterflies assailed her stomach and she wrapped her arms around Sandor’s torso, their previous exchange all but forgotten. Her ignorance of how things would unfold tonight still worried her but the contact of the Hound’s lips against hers had a soothing effect on Sansa’s fragile nerves. _It’ll be alright,_ she thought. _He loves me, as I do him and that’s all that matters in the end…_

Sandor’s tongue was caressing her own with all the hunger in the world and his hands were stroking her face and waist in a manner that clearly indicated he already thought of her body as his. They had not even moved from their place in the middle of her chamber before his fingers grasped a handful of the fabric of her nightgown and raised it so much that goose bumps sprouted all over her calves.

 

The abrupt freshness elicited a yelp from Sansa and as it escaped her mouth, Sandor lifted her from the ground. The girl was immediately reminded of the events of the previous night, however this time she was prepared for anything and relaxed in his arms as much as she could. Still, when the Hound settled her on the bed, Sansa’s meagre assurance began to waver - especially once the man voiced his next demand.

 

“Little bird, take off that dress…” he quietly bade her, his eyes shining so very queerly in the dimness of the room. “I want to see you naked as your name day and admire every inch of that perfect body of yours.”

 

Such directness was startling to Sansa and the surprise made her hesitate for an instant. _I can’t… I promised him that I’d be his tonight,_ she reminded herself. With that in mind, she undid the few laces that held her garb in place with trembling hands. Even before she was done, Sandor was pulling her nightgown over her head with so much force that she heard its delicate fibre tear under the pressure. Sansa let out a small cry of surprise and then in the blink of an eye, nothing was left covering her nudity but a delicate pair of underclothes around her hips. Immediately, she covered her breasts with her hands, feeling her nipples growing hard under her palms. Keeping her eyes lowered for a few seconds, she gathered her strength before chancing a timid glance at Sandor. When she saw the ardour that burned in his eyes, it gave her the extra dose of courage she needed and she removed her hands to let him admire her completely. 

 

“Your teats are even prettier than I remembered,” Sandor whispered roughly, watching her with the same merciless interest a starving wolf would a long awaited quarry. “I’ll eat you up, girl.”

 

Sansa breathed in deeply, unsure whether the strange tightness she felt in her lower belly was due to fear or excitement. She was still pondering this when Sandor all but jumped on her. Gasping, Sansa fell on her back, feeling the man’s weight on her as his large body covered her own. An instant later, his mouth found her breasts and the girl was shocked at just how hungry he was for them. His lips and tongue were licking and sucking at her nipples almost frantically while his hands circled and pressed the soft curves of her breast – his fingers pinching both nipples in turn anytime his mouth was busy with the other. Same as yesterday, the sensation the lascivious caress triggered was beyond pleasurable and Sansa couldn’t hold back small moans from escaping her lips. Of their own accord, her hands rose to Sandor’s head, her fingers burying themselves in his hair as she restlessly squirmed under him.

 

“No woman has teats as bloody tasty as yours, girl. Just licking them… I could die afterwards and be happy,” the man muttered when he halted after what had seemed to Sansa like an eternity of nothing existing beyond her breasts and his greedy mouth. “Although… I’d be missing something else, wouldn’t I?” he added slyly, a smirk twisting his lips as he slid his hand from her waist to her crotch.

 

Even though touching her down there was to be expected, Sansa was still taken aback by the gesture. Her breath caught in her throat yet the pressure of his hand between her legs as he stoked her very slowly over the fabric of her underclothes increased dramatically the very strange tickling of her loins. She realised, her face flushing from embarrassment at the idea, that she enjoyed it all _very much_. It was as if she had unknowingly craved for him to fondle her exactly as he did but strangest of all was how insatiable she was. She wanted _more_ of it and wished he’d keep on forever...

 

“You won’t stop me again this time, will you?” the Hound asked at seeing how flustered his actions were getting her. His stance and voice made it evident it was the last thing he wanted.

 

“No…I won’t,” Sansa murmured meekly. Aware of how unsure she had sounded, she snaked her arms around his neck and kissed him.

 

That was seemingly all the man needed as encouragement, for the pressure of his movement over Sansa’s most secret part instantly increased. Without willing it, she began rocking her pelvis against Sandor’s hand, her breath coming in raggedly and making it hard for her to keep on kissing him. It was horrifying and entrancing at the same time how such a simple touch could call forth that instinctive, animal force which had been waiting in the depths of her core. That she could have been oblivious to its presence until now was mind-blowing and made her wonder how much she knew about herself in truth. _Not much apparently_ , she mused, shutting her eyes languorously while pushing her hips a little harder against Sandor’s hand and moaning softly at the gratifying and intoxicating reward she got.

 

At witnessing her keenness, the man let out a throaty groan. “Sansa… you hot-blooded little creature…” he breathed in a raw, passionate voice while withdrawing from her.

 

Her pulse resounding loudly in her ears, Sansa watched in a trance-like state as he got on his knees and took first his jerkin, then his tunic off. No matter how undeniably imposing he had always seemed to her, beholding the Hound’s nude torso devoid of any clothes - so muscular and hairy - astounded her. Fate had given her a very powerful mate, the most virile man that had ever walked the Seven Kingdoms. The idea would’ve been thrilling if not for the prospect of what it implied in the bedchamber… and it would all take place so very, _very soon_ …

 

“My pretty little bird…” Sandor rasped lowly while leaning over her to brush his knuckle over her cheek and neck, the wolfish grin he bore giving him a daunting aura. Then, he braced his back, offering her a perfect view of his impressive build as he knelt and straddled her waist. “You’ve gotten me so hard already… come, feel your work,” he prompted, seizing her wrist and bringing her hand to the massive lump Sansa could clearly discern between his legs.

 

“Oh!” she cried at feeling the shape of his manhood through his breeches. It was so hard and big! That something so large could be expected to enter such a thin and untried maiden as her was nearly impossible to contemplate and even somewhat… frightening! _Mayhap it won’t fit at all_ , Sansa mused anxiously. Did the Hound share her misgivings?

 

Judging by the snigger that shook him as her bewilderment became evident, it was easy to conclude he did not. “Surprised, aren’t you?” he asked smugly. “Tell me, little bird? Have you ever seen a man’s cock _at all_?”

 

Heat rose to Sansa’s face at the improper question. Of course she hadn’t! Yet that she might answer such an inquiry seemed simply _inconceivable_!

 

To her relief, Sandor was happy enough to draw his own conclusion. “That’s what I thought,” he continued, seemingly satisfied. “Don’t you worry though: I won’t keep you in the dark for very long.” Staring at her with narrowed, lustful eyes, he began undoing the laces of his breeches with one hand while the other held her wrist in place. In less time than Sansa could cogitate what was happening, his manhood was freed and the heavy thing had fallen into her hand. She squeaked at feeling its skin against her palm and the Hound barked a hoarse laugh at her girlish reaction.

 

“Don’t be scared. _Touch it_ …” he insisted, his eyes gleaming impishly.

 

Biting her lip, Sansa complied and gingerly circled her fingers around his width. It felt so strange. An alien object in her hand…

 

“Gods, little bird! Do something! You won’t break the damned thing by adding a little pressure!” the man urged her. Even though he sounded exasperated, it was obvious he was not truly mad but only impatient in some queer, ecstatic way. Sansa had never seen any man behave thus before and curiously, she enjoyed beholding Sandor so eager… as if that one little gesture he asked meant the world to him.

 

Even before Sansa had time to react though, the Hound had already covered her hand with his, circling both her fingers and his shaft while vigorously pumping himself. The girl gasped, fascinated by both the thickness and length of him and how smoothly the skin of his manhood moved over its steel-hard inside. She closed her eyes in order to deal with the flow of new confusing sensations that descended upon her but just as she did, the man lowered himself to her side. Leaving his member to her care alone, he slid his hand over her belly, creeping it under the hem of her underclothes until he had reached that sweet spot between her thighs.

 

“Ooh,” Sansa complained at first – stiffening - but then, as his fingers slowly started stroking her folds, the pleasant and intense warmth she had experienced instants earlier as Sandor touched her through her underclothes was once more awakened. The contact was much more direct this time though and while the thought of how shamelessly she was letting him explore her should have mortified her, the girl was mostly entranced by the bliss his calloused skin roused in her as it rubbed against her sensitive flesh.

 

“And what about me, Sansa? What did I ever do for you to neglect me like this?” Sandor groused mischievously while pushing his manhood into her now still and loose fist.

 

Feeling immediately guilty for her lapse, the girl resumed her work on him, heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Sandor!”

 

The Hound snorted with amusement. “I think I can forgive you but you’ll need to be a very good girl from now on,” he said, bringing his face to the crook of her neck and biting gently at the smooth skin he found there, all the while never stopping his ministrations.

 

It wasn’t very long before Sansa grew aware of the peculiar moisture that was seeping from the juncture of her thighs. The Hound was spreading it with increasingly agitated and avid fingers.

 

“Little bird… you’re dripping…” he was breathing in her ear, sounding exhausted for no reason. Sansa hid her face in the pillow, abashed as much by his comment as the slippery sound his fingers made as they moved on her. Sandor didn’t seem to share her dismay. “Is that all for me…? _Really_?”

 

Unable to grasp why he’d be so pleased, Sansa didn’t reply. Then again, the man didn’t seem to mind. He grunted happily and tugged her underclothes down her legs, the light silk leaving a trail of shivers in its path. Once he had thrown them to the floor, the Hound raised his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers. “You taste so good, little bird,” he said, as delighted as if he had just tasted wine left sleeping in a cellar for years that proved to be an exceptional vintage. The concept that her own bodily fluids - and especially those coming from _that_ part of her - could be so delectable to him horrified Sansa. Yet at the same time, the fact that he lusted so much for her that even something so base could arouse him was empowering in some mysterious way. It was as if no part of her was off limits to his worship and the idea, no matter how distasteful, filled her with excitement and wonder.

 

“If I ever get a chance to, I’ll lick you all over but for now, all I can think about is fucking you as thoroughly as I know you’re meant to be. And besides,” Sandor added with a devilish  smile, “there’s no bloody use in trying to make you more wet and ready for me than you are already; I don’t see how the hells that’d be possible.”

 

Sansa blushed at the boorish comment but she didn’t have time to worry about the Hound’s implication for she shortly realised, heart pounding madly, that he was getting rid of his breeches for good. _That’s it,_ she mused, nervous all over again as she watched him struggle to free himself of the garb without leaving the bed.

 

“Seven Hells. Can’t believe this is finally going to take place,” Sandor mumbled to himself once he had succeeded.

 

With no more preliminaries, he spread Sansa’s thighs and installed his heavy, muscular body in between. He acted so fast that she barely had a chance to register what he was up to before she felt the thick head of his manhood being placed at her entrance. She winced as she was being stretched already and let out a small cry.

 

Alarmed, Sandor halted and looked her straight in the eyes, their faces so near, their breath mingled. “Don’t change your mind now, Sansa,” he hissed between his teeth, his tone half threat, half plea.

 

Taking a deep breath, Sansa composed herself. This was what she wanted, she reminded herself. With that in mind, she kissed him and wrapped her lean arms around his broad neck. As she did, she felt Sandor’s massive figure become a little less taut - as if he had genuinely feared she might chase him from the cradle of her legs and keep her maiden gift for herself. Nothing could have been more improbable. In their position, with her opened like a flower in the most vulnerable posture a woman could be in and him, already well on his way to conquer her, it was only a question of seconds before the deal was sealed.

 

Moving his hips against hers in a succession of thrusts that gradually went from slow and short to more and more rapid and deep, Sandor made his way into unsullied territory. He didn’t stop his progression until their groins touched completely, leaving no doubt as to the state of Sansa’s precious maidenhead. Quiet little laments were escaping the girl’s lips throughout the process just as Sandor groaned in pleasure.

 

“Little bird, you’re even tighter than in my most perverted dreams. Gods! Who needs the fucking seven heavens when your cunt exists?” When he realised how tense Sansa was and saw the tears that pearled at the corner of her eyes, the Hound calmed himself slightly. “It hurts, does it? Don’t you worry, it won’t always do. It just takes practice. I know you have it in you to beg for my cock. Fuck girl, you’ll see in time, you’ll become addicted to my size. Once you’re used to it, you won’t want anything else, mark my words on that.”

 

Sansa’s mouth pulled in distaste. He was so crude! And besides, why should a woman care so much about the size of a man’s… _thing_? Notwithstanding her scepticism, Sandor’s enthusiasm was contagious and she wanted nothing more than to be a part of it.

 

Forcing herself to unwind, she trailed her fingers across his sturdy shoulder blades and asked without thinking: “Do you love me?”

 

Once the words were out, she realised that Sandor had never told her he did. While she had declared her love for him many times and he had implied he shared her feelings on a few occasions, he had never uttered the words. _I want to hear him say them…_ she reflected, suddenly aware she had never thirsted more to hear a simple sentence in her life.

 

Having paused in his motion, the man was staring at her with that stony expression of his which often made it so hard to read his thoughts. Shortly though, his eyes softened and regained their fiercely passionate glow. “What do you think?” he began while raising himself on his elbows to better gaze at her without leaving her secret sanctuary. “You think I’d go through all that bloody trouble if I didn’t? That I’d risk everything I’d ever worked for for something I didn’t care about? For someone I didn’t want more than anything else?”

 

Such a romantic declaration coming from a mouth more used to uttering vulgarities and curses was like music to Sansa’s ears yet he hadn’t given her what she longed for. “But… but do you _love_ me?” she demanded again, this time her voice laced with a hint of despair.

 

“Are you deaf, you foolish girl? What do you think I just told you?” the Hound answered back in a tone that sounded both amused and annoyed, the burned corner of his mouth twitching faintly. His unwillingness to admit his feelings was heartbreaking to Sansa, yet just as she was beginning to fear tears might well in her eyes, Sandor seemed to guess what had motivated her inquiry. He sighed and lifted a hand to her face to caress it with his fingers, the shadow of a smile passing over his lips. “Little bird, I love you…” he told her, each word spoken slowly but with undeniable conviction. “Fuck! You might even be the first person I have ever loved!”

 

“Is that true?” Sansa asked, moved beyond words by what he had implied.

 

“Yes it is,” he conceded wearily. “You want me to say it again, I’ll wager? Such a silly little bird, you are. I’ve other plans though. No instead, I’ll show you how men like me love their women.” With that, he resumed the movement of his hips. “It’s not as sweet and refined as the poems and feats of the knights of your songs but that doesn’t mean it has less merit.” Then, he barked a hoarse laugh and increased the pace of his thrusts, visibly enjoying the action very much. “And it’s certainly a damned lot more pleasurable, if you ask me. My love for you is as strong and deep as the way I long to fuck you. Just wait.”

 

If Sansa had believed that he was letting himself go before, she had been gravely mistaken. Adjusting his position to better enter her, Sandor began shoving himself in with so much force that she gasped, her head rolling backward. Although surprising, it wasn’t really painful; the queer moisture that had appalled her so much earlier seemed to have its uses after all for Sandor’s manhood was sliding in and out of her easily, each of its comings and goings making her feel totally filled out and overwhelmed one instant and then, empty and wanting the next. It was confusing in an ecstatic kind of way.

 

“See how deeply my love runs for you, Sansa? _Feel it_?” the Hound was asking, repeatedly sheathing himself in her in slow, powerful lunges that made her see stars.

 

“Yes! Yes!” Sansa mewed, her inhibitions all but gone.

 

She loved the feeling of being completely invaded by him, inside and out, his imposing manhood claiming its place in her and his robust limbs like a stone-solid frame of muscles around her, making it impossible to even think of escaping. That was the last thing she wished though. Absurdly, she revelled in the knowledge that she was completely helpless under him, that he had gained absolute control over her. She was a willing victim but there was no mistaking that he was her assailant and that for her to learn the extent of his love, she had to surrender entirely to his will. His love was a brutal kind of love and you had to live it in action to come to know its true face.

 

“Oh, Sansa… so sweet and loving and all mine,” the man was muttering while increasing his rhythm.

 

His large free hand was roving all over her curves, from thigh to hip to breast in a restless and eternal motion, his fingers pinching her nipple every now and then and sending blissful waves of shock down her belly.

 

“Fuck, little bird, this is too good… I don’t think I can last much longer,” Sandor grunted, out of breath and sweaty.

 

Then he seized Sansa’s hips with both hands and began pounding himself into her with so much strength that she might have been propelled out of the bed if his hold on her had not been as tight as a vice. Groaning, the man gave one last stab before pulling out, a warm and sticky liquid immediately flowing over her belly where his still-hard manhood now rested. Sansa stared at it, amazed by the whole process and most of all, by the incredibly thick and long member that had been inside of her seconds earlier. It seemed impossible now that she saw it against her small waist. She was pondering how baffling it was, still dizzy from her deflowering, when she abruptly noticed that some blood was splattered over Sandor’s manhood.

 

“My maidenhead!” she exclaimed, sitting up to peer dreadfully between her legs. “Oh!”

 

Although it looked bad at first sight, she quickly took note that most of the blood had stayed either in her folds or over Sandor’s shaft. Growling, the latter stood up and went unenergetically searching for his handkerchief in the pile of his clothes on the floor besides the bed. He passed it over his member and then tossed it to Sansa. Once she had wiped off the blood from her lady’s part and the seed from her stomach, she shifted on the bed to have a better view of the state of her sheets. A small red stain was visible but it wasn’t so bad. At least she hoped so.

 

“I should have thought about that,” the Hound uttered flatly, staring expressionlessly at the stain.

 

Letting worldly worries break the magic that should unfold after lovers had united their bodies for the first time was the last thing Sansa wanted. “I’ll tell my handmaidens it’s my moon blood coming early,” she hastily proposed, proud to have come up with a solution so fast. It would be plausible; after all, she was not very regular. Having a viable plan made her feel instantly better and she laid down on the featherbed again, beaming at Sandor.

 

Smiling tiredly, the latter followed her immediately and collapsed next to her over the featherbed before pulling her clumsily against him. After that, they both stayed silent for a minute or two, simply enjoying how wonderful it was to be together in the most complete and intimate way possible.

 

“Little bird… so beautiful, pure and perfect,” he began mumbling sleepily after some time, his eyes shut.

 

Sansa smiled and snuggled against him. She liked it when he complimented her.

 

“How will I ever live without taking you like this every fucking day now that I know what it’s like?” the man wondered aloud. Opening his eyes, he sighed and added very matter-of-factly: “I won’t make it.”

 

Sansa was wordlessly gazing at him, hugging his strong torso as tightly as she could in hope that her sweet love might comfort him.

 

“Bugger that, I know what we need to do,” he declared suddenly, his previous lethargy all but gone. Snorting with satisfaction, he abruptly turned to his side and pulled Sansa against his chest, his possessive hands engulfing her thin waist. His teeth were bared in a roguish grin. “A few nights from now, I’ll climb up that fucking tower again and _snatch_ you from your chamber. Once that’s done, I’ll take you out of the Red Keep and then, before the bloody roosters sing their atrocious song, we’ll be out of this buggering city. As we get out of your father and the king’s grasp, there’s no doubting we’ll find a sept in some lost village and then, I’ll make you my wife in truth. We’ll see if they take you away from me once you’re wedded and bedded. The bloody gods don’t look too kindly on vows being forcibly broken.”

 

Sansa stared at him with wide, teary eyes. “Oh, Sandor… I love you!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately. He had just asked her to marry him!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> This one was quick to write! Don’t get used to it though, I can’t guaranty I’ll even deliver another chapter that fast again!

**Sandor**

_Why haven’t you thought about that before, you idiot dog?_ Sandor wondered at seeing the enthusiasm with which his plan had been received by the little bird. From the moment she had heard it, she had pressed her lips to his and thrown her arms around his neck. She couldn’t have been more blissful if he had brought her the moon on a buggering silver platter. _Well, it doesn’t really matter. We still have time enough and perhaps she wouldn’t have agreed if we hadn’t been driven to the bloody wall by that damned father of hers._

“Oh, Sandor...” Sansa was murmuring between soft kisses, her bare body flush against his.

 

Such a tender and keen show of love was getting Sandor pretty hard again. Perhaps if he was quick about it, he could take her another time? _No, I’d best go. Being here is already dangerous enough as it is. Staying longer would be too reckless._

“Sansa,” he began with some reluctance, pushing her gently from him. “I need to go.”

 

The girl removed her arms from around him and nodded obediently. What a well-behaved little bird she was.

 

All too aware of his erection, Sandor sat up before he lost his determination and hurriedly put his mind to something that might distract him from Sansa’s nude form on the featherbed beside him. “I think we’d best do this thing as soon as we can,” he began, their escape seeming the most logical direction to go. “I can’t tell you exactly when I’ll come back for you but it will be within the next week or so. Be ready and plan ahead what you’ll bring but don’t pack anything in advance. This way, you won’t risk arousing suspicion if one of your handmaidens finds your luggage.”

 

He glanced at Sansa and was satisfied to notice he had her utmost attention. She was very quiet, looking somewhat serious with her big, round eyes.

 

“Don’t bring any flashy silk dresses or anything of the sort. Only warm and practical clothes,” he instructed, rising to his feet and sweeping his gaze across the room in search of his underclothes. “And don’t worry about the gold, I’ve plenty so leave all your jewellery here. I don’t intend that we’ll be away forever, just long enough to allow rumours that I made off with you to spread around court. That should do it; anyone with even half a brain will guess your maidenhead is history by the time we’re back.”

 

Blushing, Sansa looked down, apparently disquieted at the notion that her deflowering would become public knowledge.

 

Sandor snorted with amusement. “Don’t look so daunted! No woman stays untouched for longer than a few hours in any true marriage. It’s the way of things and no one will judge you for it, silly bird!”

 

Once he was done lacing his underclothes, Sandor gazed at Sansa. She was still silent, a line of worry on her brow. _Poor little bird_ , the man mused fondly, a smile on his lips.

 

“If it’s your chaste reputation you fear for, you’re wasting your time and energy. Trust me, as soon we come back to King’s Landing, I’ll make sure every fucking courtier knows for a fact that we’ve been properly wed and if anyone at all _even_ _implies_ that the marriage has been consummated before the ceremony, the bugger will need to deal with me personally,” Sandor promised, taking a step forward and bracing his back as if to show the girl just how powerful and intimidating he was. Only an idiot would ever confront him. “I’ll be honest with you, little bird: the prospect of having such a pristine and proper little lady for my wife appeals to me quite a lot and I’ll not see your virtue tarnished. No one will ever know you lapsed but me, you can rest assured.”

 

Looking at her, Sandor could hardly fathom that anyone might possibly believe otherwise. With that pout on her mouth and those wide blue eyes, the image she projected was that of _a good little girl,_ one pure and virginal that could never, _ever_ do any wrong… That was if you didn’t take into consideration the fact that she laid naked on the featherbed, of course. Sandor couldn’t help but smirk. Who could have predicted that such an innocent _maiden_ had it in her to misbehave and least of all, be audacious enough to send a lewd invitation to the most infamous of the king’s retainers? Oh but she had not only done _that_ , she had also let the dog into her bed and enjoyed every minute of what had followed. Her secret was safe with him though. The world would only ever get to see the modest side of her, of that he would make certain.

 

“Sandor?” Sansa called just as the man was retrieving his breeches from the floor. Her tone was meek, hesitant… _mournful_ even.

 

“What is it, little bird?” Sandor demanded, jerking his head toward her and going from serene to alarmed in the space of a single eye blink.

 

The girl gulped. “Are you sure this is such a good idea?” she continued so very shyly in a barely audible whisper while sitting up and folding her arms around her pulled-up legs. “I mean… I do want to marry you and become your wife – it’s my biggest dream, really! – but this seems so… _drastic_.”

 

Her sudden misgivings weren’t something Sandor was prepared for. “ _Drastic_?” he repeated, the speed of his pulse increasing violently. She couldn’t change her mind now! Not when she had been his but a minute before! Near to panic, he strode to the bed, adamant about making her change her mind. “What the hells do you mean by that, little bird? Of course it is _drastic_ but what other fucking option do we have?” Then he took a deep breath to calm himself, got on his knees and caught both her upper arms in his grasp. “Your father won’t ever let his guard down from now on, you know that,” he reminded her insistently, his face only a couple of inches from hers. “And he won’t agree to a lowly dog like me marrying his sweet daughter no matter what I do to prove myself - don’t pretend otherwise. Fuck! You’re betrothed to the king’s son, by the bloody Stranger! How do you want us to ever have a chance of being together if we don’t force it on them all?!”

 

Tears were pearling in the girl’s eyes. “I know, you’re right, but he’ll be so mad and disappointed!” she sobbed, seemingly extremely affected by the notion of ever being naught but perfect in her father’s eyes.

 

Sandor was nothing close to a family man but her concern did somehow move something in him. “He will be, that’s for sure,” he admitted, his tone having lost its dry edge to gain some gentleness instead. “Yet you’ve come to a stage in your life where you need to think of yourself and no one else. I know you’re worrying about your duty and all that bullshit but fate and that bloody philtre we both drank have decided for you already. If you don’t flee with me, it’s your own chance to happiness you’ll ruin.” Of that, he wasn’t sure but it was best that he be dramatic if he wanted to convince her. Thankfully though, the girl seemed to agree for she nodded sadly, her eyes cast down. That was good.

 

“Sandor?” she began timidly, wavering a few seconds before continuing in a small, childlike voice. “Do you think that… that perhaps the fact that we both drank the philtre - you and me being so different and from opposite spectra of the court – might mean that the gods have some plan for us… that they want us to be together?”

 

That was a tricky one. Sandor didn’t believe even _slightly_ in any fucking gods but he couldn’t let such a juicy chance pass by either. “Who am I to know what design those buggers have in mind, yet why the fuck should you risk displeasing any of them?”

 

His answer seemed to both amuse and offend her for Sansa smiled and wrinkled her nose at the same time.

 

“See, girl? You’ve no option. The gods have made it easier for you and you’d better listen to them or else, they’ll send you to the seven hells.” Loosening his hold on her upper arm, the man lifted a hand to her cheek and brushed it with his knuckle. “Although, that might be a good thing for me in the long run since I’m sure to end up there but I’ve never been a very patient man, especially where you are concerned. I’ve no intention of waiting much longer: I want you _now_.”

 

The soft giggles Sandor’s statement elicited from Sansa warmed his heart and he grunted with satisfaction.

 

Nevertheless, he continued, this time more seriously. “Now you listen to me. As we’ve decided, we _are_ going to elope and I won’t tolerate any change of heart from now on. Believe me, if you do, I’ll just hoist you over my shoulder and carry you out of the bloody capital no matter what you say. Still I’ll not pretend otherwise: that I wed you won’t make anyone happy, your father first. He’ll hate me for it and probably never forgive me. However, he won’t stay mad at you forever.”

 

“Do you really think so?” Sansa asked in a wistful but hopeful murmur.

 

“Of course, and how could he? You’re far too sweet for that,” Sandor rasped, baring his teeth in what he knew was a grin gruesome enough to make any sound maiden take to her heels and run. Sansa was above that though and instead, she kissed him as keenly as if he had been one of the pretty knights from her songs. That potion had really made her lose her mind and judgment but who was he to complain?   

 

“I’m going for real now,” Sandor told her, petting her hair before standing up. In no time, he had seized his breeches from the floor and was pulling them up his legs. “Remember what I told you: be ready to leave.”

 

The girl nodded, a smile on her lips. The trouble was over. _Thank the gods_ , Sandor mused, sliding his tunic over his head. Absurdly, those divine bastards had truly saved him for once. Who’d have thought?

 

Installed in a very girlish purple armchair, Sandor was putting on his socks and boots while watching the room around him. It certainly wasn’t the kind of environment he was used to being in after having spent himself. The place was very tidy and feminine. There were books of songs on the shelves and tapestries portraying images of legendary princesses and their heroic knights accompanying some of Sansa’s own embroidery of flowers and animals on the stone walls. Most unexpected of all though were those few expensive-looking dolls standing on the desk next to a large vase of pink and white flowers. The sight made him chuckle.  It was quite a contrast to the brothels Sandor was accustomed to. He did like it though. Once they were wed, would their little _love nest_ be as pretty and well-kept? That’d be a change and certainly a first for him. He didn’t live in a dump as he liked seeing where he was at and being able to find his things swiftly but while organised, his room could get dusty and the idea of decorating it had never even crossed his mind. Having a woman as feminine as the little bird sharing his life would change everything and Sandor had to admit that he did find the prospect quite enticing.

 

Feeling more light-hearted than he had in a very long time, the man brusquely rose to his feet, however without even noticing it at first, the dainty armchair he had been sitting in stayed stuck around his large frame for just an instant before falling heavily onto the stone floor. For such a delicate looking piece of furniture, the damned thing resounded frighteningly loudly as it hit the ground.   

 

“Seven hells!” Sandor cursed even before the echo had died. If a guard was walking by, he was done. “I’d better get out of here _and quick_!”

 

“Oh, Sandor! What… what…” Sansa was mumbling, both her hands covering her mouth and her eyes wide with horror.

 

“I know! I messed up! No time to lose, girl! Put on your fucking nightgown, _now_! Someone’s sure to come!” Sandor hissed under his breath. The awareness that his blunder might drag them into a tight spot made him exceedingly irked at himself and thus, at the whole bloody wide word - the little bird included!

 

Hastily, he put on his leather studded jerkin but it was already too late. Hurried footsteps could be heard approaching the girl’s chamber.

 

“Lady Sansa?” a voice called. “What was that noise? Are you all right?”

 

 _Fuck!_ Sandor thought, frantically looking around to make sure he had not forgotten anything.

 

The little bird had only found her nightgown and was now covering her nude curves with it. “Everything’s fine, Jory! I just… bumped into a… a chair while going to… to my…my chamber pot,” she pretended, sounding completely abashed to say the last words aloud. As if women never went.

 

“Please open up. I want to make sure.” Her lack of assurance had sounded suspicious and unluckily for them, the guard was apparently no fool.

 

 _Bugger the bloody Hand for choosing retainers with a head on their shoulders,_ Sandor bemoaned darkly, jaw clenched tightly and mouth twitching.

 

Frozen into a stupor, Sansa was nervously gazing at him, her lips agape with fear.

 

 _Say yes!_ he mouthed, irritated by her lack of initiative. It was then, just as he was about to vanish from the chamber, that Sandor’s eyes fell on his sullied handkerchief on the ground. _Oh damn, imagine leaving that behind..._

 

“Lady Sansa?!” the man Sansa had called Jory asked once more, his patience getting thinner. “Open up, please!”

 

“I… I’m coming!” the little bird stammered, not moving an inch from her place beside the bed.

 

In one rapid movement, Sandor seized the dirty handkerchief from the ground, put it between his tunic and jerkin and strode to the balcony. Once he was there, he turned one last time to lay severe eyes on Sansa. _Open!_ he wanted to scream at her but instead, he only pointed an authoritative finger at the chamber’s door before pulling open the balcony’s and going out.

 

 _Faster!_ he exhorted himself as he went over the railing and began his descent. In less than a few heartbeats, his hands had already left the balcony’s bottom and were hooking themselves to the stone wall. _Faster!_ The old tower was covered with moss in some places and Sandor nearly lost his footing after one of his boots slipped against a stone. He was just regaining his balance, his heart pounding madly and the nape of his neck drenched in cold sweat, when Jory’s voice faintly reached his ears.

 

“Lady Sansa!” the man repeated, clearly exasperated by her absence of collaboration while also obviously worried about what it might hide.

 

He would take matters into his own hands very soon, Sandor could feel it. The little bird had waited for far too long and all that hesitation had certainly done nothing to quell Jory’s distrust. If she had answered more promptly and started to slowly open the door just as Sandor left the room, he believed it would still have been possible but now… _Seven hells! That’s what happens when you shelter your children too much. The poor girl wouldn’t survive on her own a half-hour outside a castle._ As much as he would’ve loved to protect her today, the situation didn’t allow Sandor to do so and he felt extremely frustrated for it. Nevertheless, there was no denying that disappearing was his best bet, no matter how much of a coward it made him feel.

 

“I’m coming! I’m here… I…” Sansa was replying from above him, the quaver with which she spoke making her panic-stricken state unquestionable.

 

How could he still discern her voice so well even from down where he was? Sandor suddenly wondered. Had he left the balcony door ajar by any chance? As the certainty that he had indeed been so careless struck him, Sandor growled in despair. The little bird had probably not even noticed either! _This is not going to end well,_ he predicted, cringing when the sound of someone forcing the door reverberated through the air. _Open, you silly girl!_

 

And at last she did, Sandor surmised since only silence preceded the loud footfalls that resonated on the balcony.

 

“There’s someone! Go down! Fast!” Jory ordered just as soon.

 

Good, there were others with him. Fuck! Sandor was not down yet and if he jumped, he’d break his legs and wouldn’t be able to flee. The sole option he had was to keep on going and hope against all hope that he’d be faster than his pursuers. _Seven Hells…_

Struggling not to discourage himself too much, Sandor continued until he reached the solid ground. He sighed in relief when he did and wiped off some of the perspiration that was dripping down his brow with the back of his hand while not wasting an instant before starting to sprint through the bailey. It was too late though.

 

“Catch him!” a cry echoed from behind him. From the noise his pursuers made, there were at least three.

 

Logically, he should have abandoned all hope right then but Sandor had never been one to yield and so he kept on running, never mind how thin his chances of losing the bastards were. _Fuck! If I had my sword, I could kill them all, I’m sure._ Yet, the man was not such a fool as to truly believe doing so would’ve been a good idea. After all, even if he had succeeded, that he’d get caught later was inevitable and then, he’d not only have been surprised spending time alone with the Hand’s daughter in the dark of night but would also stand accused of having killed a few of his men. That would only make a bad situation worse.

 

But how was running supposed to help at all then? Given his previous conclusion, it now seemed very futile. Even if he lost them, one didn’t need to be a genius to guess who would risk breaking his neck climbing a bloody tower to spend a few stolen moments with Sansa Stark. _Bugger that!_ _This is ridiculous,_ _I’ll just surrender,_ he decided with a mix of resignation and wrath.

 

He had only slightly slowed down when Sandor got caught by a hand and then a few others.Those Northerners had technique; they knew how to restrain a man, even one as strong as him.  _No use in resisting,_ he grudgingly concluded, the burnt corner of his lips twitching as the guards forcibly yanked his arms behind his back, twisting them while putting a sword to his throat.

 

“Hey! You were right, it’s the Hound! Oh! What will the lord think of that?” a man exclaimed, his disgust plain, as Sandor was brutally lowered and then immobilised on the ground. “What by the old gods were you doing in our lady’s chamber, dog?”

 

Sandor stayed silent, his stomach pressed firmly against the dirt _. Let them figure it out._

“You better not have ruined her or you’ll learn what we Northerners do to misbehaved mongrels that can’t seem to leave the bitches alone. Our kennelmasters know a trick or two that never fail to fix such problems.”

With that, Sandor received a violent kick in the ribs, and then another. Still, no sound left his mouth, neither complaint nor groan. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Nevertheless, the buggers were enjoying themselves despite his unresponsiveness. One of them was spitting on him while another hit him on the side of the head and there was no doubting they’d have kept going throughout the night if a yell had not put an abrupt stop to their little party. Sandor breathed out a sigh of relief: he had been just about to lose his resolve and start fighting back even though it was evident that was exactly what the guards had aimed for.

 

“Stop it, all of you! He’s a king’s man, remember?” It was Jory, Sandor realised. He was out of breath as if he had just run all the way down the tower. “It’s not for us to judge him. Let the king do it himself.”

 

Without even grumbling, the guards obeyed, grasping him by the collar and raising him to his feet without loosening the hold they had on his arms. Sandor was impressed at how disciplined they were – most men wouldn’t have given up on their chance to beat up an enemy, as they were sure to view him, so easily.

 

Once he was up and somewhat less dizzy, Sandor’s stare fell on Jory, who was standing less than a foot from him, his features set in a deep scowl, red with anger and his hair in total disarray.

 

“I spoke to Lord Stark and he’s not pleased, Clegane,” he spat at Sandor, while eyeing him with both hatred and contempt. Then, he winced and looked away as promptly as if gazing any longer at his burnt face threatened to nauseate him. “A guard’s on his way to tell the king. You’re in big trouble.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Here’s a little Ned chapter just because it’s been so long since we visited his head and given the present situation, I think the timing is perfect! Muhahaha!

**Eddard**

Through the pulled curtains, the strong midmorning sun so characteristic of the South was filtering in, bathing Ned’s solar in its bright light and uncomfortable heat. Hunched over his desk, the man sat immobile, his head propped in his hands, while trying to understand how such an affliction could possibly have befallen his family.

 

When the problem had first arisen, Eddard had naively believed he had acted as severely and appropriately as was required to minimise the damage. That had been an error, he had learned not long after the tourney when Sansa had been surprised in the middle of a private conversation with the Hound in a deserted corridor of the keep. Although the scene had shocked him, Ned’s decision to confine his daughter to the Tower of the Hand had at the time seemed drastic enough to unequivocally prevent any sort of contact between her and Sandor Clegane and thus, protect her virtue and reputation. Yet he had been wrong, oh so _wrong_.

 

At the thought of how careless he had unknowingly been, Eddard felt a shooting pain span his brow from temple to temple. His usual headache had been roused almost from the moment he had opened his eyes a few hours before. What a nightmare it had been to be awakened from a rare deep sleep to be told the worst news a father could receive. His daughter had been compromised: the Hound had been surprised escaping from her bedroom at the hour of the wolf… _I shouldn’t have underestimated that man’s tenacity,_ he regretted so very bitterly, rubbing a hand over his ashen face.

 

When minutes after his abrupt awakening, Eddard had arrived at Sansa’s chamber, she had already been sobbing. Between her cries, she had first pretended she had been alone and that Jory was mistaken but when the latter had arrived a moment after and told Ned the Hound had been captured by his men, she had then admitted he had come to visit her while pretending they had only talked. Such an assertion had been hard to believe, especially looking at her messy hair and dishevelled nightgown which was not even completely laced-up. Never before had he felt so awkward in the presence of one of his children. In the state Sansa was in, holding her gaze had been a real ordeal for Eddard. There was no wondering what they had been up to, alone in that chamber and the notion that he stood in the very space where such deeds had taken place made him extremely uneasy and even slightly nauseous. It was much less taxing to glance around her as they spoke.

 

Nevertheless, reality had to be faced. Sansa had been innocent enough – at least, until recently - for Ned to believe that the idea of… of getting _involved intimately_ with a man wouldn’t have crossed her mind.  However, Sandor Clegane was not a man he could picture being satisfied with the chaste kisses girls her age fancied. It wasn’t hard to guess he had been insistent and while Sansa was far too impressionable as it was, the fact that she had drunk that damnable philtre made her even more vulnerable to someone so intimidating. She was the perfect target.

 

Wincing, Ned leaned into the back of his armchair to stare wearily at the ceiling, feeling utterly drained. No matter how much he’d have preferred to chase away the images that reflecting upon the situation brought to his mind, he needed to face the terrible facts if he wished to pick up the pieces. It was something he’d have preferred never to deal with though. Raising daughters was proving to be the biggest challenge of his life.

 

When he had joined her in her room, Eddard had kept his fingers crossed that Jory might have interrupted Sansa and Sandor Clegane before irreversible damage was done. Yet, his hopes had quickly been crushed about an hour or two later after Sansa’s handmaidens had made her bed and noticed some blood was splattered on the sheets. From the moment the women had uncovered the dark stain, Sansa had sworn it was her moon blood but none of them had been duped. Without delay, they had rushed to Ned’s solar to inform him of their find but now that a few hours had passed, the man had still not gathered enough courage to confront his daughter about it. _What if she’s telling the truth?_ an unreasonable but insistent part of him kept repeating in the back of his head. While he knew he should go to her chamber and question her to set the record straight, the mere idea of speaking of either feminine or coupling matters with Sansa made him so ill-at-ease, he would stir uncomfortably in his seat anytime he tried to think of a way he might bring up the subject. Fathers weren’t supposed to have those kinds of discussions with their daughters! _Gods, if only Catelyn was here…_ he regretted not for the first time.

 

 _Of course, to get a clear and indisputable answer, the most logical action I should take would be to ask a septa to examine her and see if she is still… intact,_ Ned mused, his mouth pulled into a stiff frown and his brow creased severely. Sighing deeply, he shook his head and let his shoulders slump. He wouldn’t do it. The idea didn’t appeal to him in the least. It would be far too humiliating for Sansa and although she had misbehaved, he didn’t have the heart to put her through such a trial. Besides, if truth be told, Eddard was far too afraid of what the experience would prove. While he knew very well that considering the circumstances, the chances that she was still a maiden were extremely thin, he nevertheless preferred not to be told loud and clear. Keeping a measure of doubt was a small solace but he had so few of those these days. Moreover, such a test would risk further spreading the tale of what had happened and that was the last thing he needed if he wanted to preserve his daughter’s reputation. Most of his household was sure to already be aware of Sansa’s predicament and Ned dreaded most of all that rumour might seep out of the tower. He needed to act fast if he wanted to avoid Sansa’s name being dragged through the mud.

 

Thankfully, he had already cobbled together the basics of a plan. Nothing complicated: he would simply cancel Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey as soon as he met with the king and then send her back to Winterfell within a fortnight. Oh and also, it would be imperative to make certain that moon tea was brewed and brought to her chamber sometime during the day. While the mere idea of his so very young daughter drinking such an ill-reputed beverage filled him with distaste, one couldn’t be too careful with such matters. It wouldn’t be wise not to.

 

Once Sansa was home again, Cat would arrange a quick marriage to one of their bannermen’s sons. Ned had no doubt she would know best who to pick and thus, he would leave the final decision to her. In spite of his trust in his wife, he knew finding the right candidate wouldn’t be an easy task. While their future son-in-law needed to come from a respected family since a daughter of Winterfell couldn’t mingle with just anyone, that the young man’s House be either impoverished or not too well established would be crucial. Indeed, by choosing a candidate in need of favour, they would ensure that his gratefulness to be paired with a Stark overshadowed the inconvenience of wedding a _maiden_ with a stain on her reputation. Obviously, both the parents and young man would be warned beforehand of what motivated such a rushed wedding. It wouldn’t be honourable not to tell them and Ned also feared that keeping them in the dark might cause them to resent Sansa if rumours were to reach the North. That her new family treated her with respect despite her past misconduct should be a priority in Catelyn’s selection.

 

 _But Cat… How will I ever break the news to her?_ Ned wondered desperately, his heart filling with dread. In hope that the problem might somehow be resolved before long, he had as of yet postponed informing his wife of Sansa’s misadventure with the potion. Now that disaster had stuck though, revealing his failure in protecting their daughter to Cat was becoming inevitable, mandatory even. The problem was that he had no clue at all of how he might explain something to her that he didn’t even understand himself. _If only I could speak to her directly,_ Eddard implored, massaging the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. _Written words won’t ever say enough._

 

“Ned!” a booming voice came through the opening door just as Eddard was about to attempt putting on parchment the first words of his letter to Cat.

 

Startled, he dropped his quill and instantly stood from his chair. It was the king, of course. The coloring of his face was particularly ruddy this morning and his beard had not been properly groomed. _He has probably stayed up drinking all night,_ Ned surmised with disapproval. His annoyance only grew further when he noticed he was accompanied by Ser Jaime Lannister.

 

“Sorry I couldn’t come before but I’ve been held up by some other matter,” Robert began gruffly. “Also, I wanted to have a word with Clegane. You have no idea how disappointed I am in him. Truly. I thought he had more sense than that.”

 

Ned stayed silent and scowled. He couldn’t pretend he shared his friend’s opinion on the matter.

 

“I wasn’t able to get much out of him but we both know why a man would secretly visit a young lady in the dark of night. And with the effects Adelardus’ potion is supposed to have… You do remember what he told us about those animals he has tested the philtre on, don’t you? All those litters they-”

 

At hearing the king’s implication, Ned’s face winkled as if in pain. “Your Grace! No need to say more,” he promptly interrupted.

 

As if the situation wasn’t unbearable enough, his gaze then darted toward the Kingslayer, who was trying to stop himself from smirking but failing miserably.

 

To be the object of that man’s mirth was insufferable to Ned. “Your Grace,” he snapped angrily, pointing a finger at the knight. “I don’t see any reason why Ser Jaime needs to be here. If we’re to discuss my private family affairs, I’d rather we be alone. ”

 

“The Kingsguard are sworn to secrecy, Ned! You can say whatever you want before him,” was Robert’s predictable answer.

 

Eddard was in no mood to capitulate easily. “Your Grace, please,” he insisted dryly. “He can wait outside. My solar is safe enough.” 

 

For an instant, the king hesitated but he quickly seemed to deduce from his friend’s demeanour that he had made up his mind and that his resolve was steel-solid. “All right, Ned. I guess I can make an exception for you. Jaime, you can step out.”

 

Bowing, the Kingslayer obeyed but not before glancing Ned’s way with mocking, knowing eyes. Ned sighed in despair and irritation both. He was not looking forward to all those derisive looks he was certain to get in the days to come – because there would be more, he knew it very well.

 

Both he and the king watched as Jaime Lannister left the room. Once the door was closed behind him, Robert took a seat in a cushioned armchair in front of Ned and began speaking. Eddard did likewise and sat back in his own chair.

 

“Ned, yesterday’s incident is regrettable and I assure you Clegane is going to be punished for it,” the king promised, his tone as grave as it ever got. “Most of all though, measures assuring he cannot get in contact with Sansa are going to be taken. Still, you must realise that given that he has been drugged against his will, holding him completely accountable for his actions would be unfair. I don’t think he should be publicly punished. He’s a victim in this, let’s not forget it.”

 

Ned cringed at hearing the word ‘victim’ yet he did not contradict the king. “Gods forbid we make a show out of this!” he exclaimed, horrified that the notion of whipping the Hound on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor might have crossed Robert’s mind. “The last thing we need is to attract more people’s attention to this mess. With nearly my whole household and your guards privy to the Hound’s _visit_ , it seems to me that enough parties are privy to what has happened as it is. Leave it, please, Your Grace. All I ask of you is discretion and besides that, what you decide to do with Clegane is the least of my concerns. The only thing that is important to me is to preserve Sansa’s reputation and that she be as far from that man as possible. In fact, I’m planning on sending her back to Winterfell. I think you’ll agree that she cannot stay betrothed to your son under these conditions-”

 

“ _Not stay betrothed_?! I hope you’re joking, Ned!” the king exclaimed, his face growing even redder. “I was looking forward to our families being joined!”

 

Eddard’s eyes widened with surprise for a heartbeat before narrowing in exasperation the next. He hadn’t expected the king to object in the least. “Surely you’re not serious, Your Grace? You can’t truly intend to place my daughter on the throne after yesterday’s incident. Isn’t one of the primary criteria for choosing a future wife for a prince of the blood that the young lady be virtuous and her virginity unquestionable? Sansa, for all it pains me to admit it, is no longer the proper candidate she used to be.”

 

“You make too much out of this, Ned! All that fuss about maidenhood is theoretical only. Do you truly believe Cersei came to our nuptial bed intact?” At that, Robert roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. Shortly though, he calmed himself and glanced with apprehension in the door’s direction as if he suddenly feared his voice might have carried through the thick wood and reached his brother-in-law’s ears. Frowning, he cleared his throat and continued in a hushed tone. “There was not a single drop of blood on our sheet when I woke up the morning following our wedding, I remember it well enough. Yet I didn’t repudiate her.” Then, Robert snorted a dry, humourless laugh. “Although, it might not have been such a bad idea now that I think about it… Yet as much as I suffered and still do, when the realm’s interest is at stake, our inclinations, tastes and opinions don’t really matter. The alliances we build take precedence over everything else and you can’t deny, Ned - you being the Hand - that the Seven Kingdoms would definitely benefit from the Starks and the Baratheons being joined. The North and the South need more ties.”

 

Ned’s hand circled the arms of his chair tightly. Things were not going as he had planned and worst of all, the king had valid arguments. “What you’re saying does hold some truth, Your Grace, but as a father, I need to think of my daughter’s interests as well. I’m not deceiving myself: that rumours of her misconduct will end up reaching the court is nearly unavoidable. How do you think the noblemen and women will take to having a queen who has been dishonoured by none other than her betrothed’s own sworn shield? I don’t want Sansa to be ill-considered and looked upon with contempt by her own subjects.”

 

“Oh come on, Ned! It’s not like our children need to marry before a few years and I don’t intend on dying anytime soon either! If word was to spread – which I doubt - by the time Sansa is crowned queen, people will have forgotten about this whole story. Don’t overestimate the common courtier’s memory. There’s always a new and juicier scandal to grasp their interest and make them forget the last. At this rate, no one will remember any of this when the time to swear allegiance to my son comes.”

 

Ned grunted in frustration. It seemed like Robert had an answer everything. “Perhaps but for the time being, the court will remember it well enough and think of it anytime Sansa makes an appearance. I don’t want to put her through the shame of being widely disregarded and sending her North as soon as possible is the best course of action I can take to avoid it,” he retorted sharply. Standing up to the king so obstinately gave Ned no pleasure, however there was no way in all of Westeros that he would sleep peacefully at night as long as the Hound was within sniffing distance of his daughter.

 

“But, Ned! Don’t you see that by sending Sansa away, you’d only confirm to the public that the rumours are true? People won’t be so willing to believe them if she stays here and the king himself supports her. What’s more, your retainers and servants are reliable people as far as I know and the Kingsguard can be trusted to guard their tongues, so chances are the court will never hear of it anyhow. As for Sandor, I’m sending him back to Casterly Rock so very soon you won’t have to fear that he can so much as look at Sansa. This is more reasonable as his absence should raise less suspicion than your daughter’s. Preparations have already started and thus, he should be gone from King’s Landing before the next sennight. Lord Tywin will find him plenty of work to occupy his thoughts and time, I have no doubt about it. And in the meantime, he’s being watched by a few of my men so you don’t have to worry that he might climb the Tower of the Hand again.” At that, Robert clasped his hands together over his prominent stomach and leaned further into his chair, his satisfaction evident.

 

The news of the Hound’s departure was indeed a balm to Ned’s so very weary spirit, nevertheless he was not ready to give in just yet either. “The queen won’t take too kindly to seeing the Hound being sent away. You’ll have to tell her the truth and then, how do you think she’ll treat Sansa? And what about Joffrey?”

 

“Oh, don’t get in a state about them,” Robert replied, his eyes lazily half-closed as he waved Ned’s concern away with the back of his hand. “I don’t need to divulge the whole truth to Cersei. I can simply pretend Sansa’s presence nearby was distracting the Hound in his work. And Jaime won’t speak to her either or else I’ll know right away who among my Kingsguard betrayed his vow of secrecy. Despite his looks, he’s not that foolish, you know.” The king shut his eyes and yawned. All this talking had apparently worn him out. “So you see, Ned,” he continued after a short pause, “there’s no need to send your daughter away. As for the betrothal, I think it’s a given it still stands. Besides, I trust Adelardus will have found a cure to the philtre by the time Joffrey and Sansa’s wedding is celebrated. We just need to be patient.”

 

Ned felt as if he had been driven to the wall but most of all, he was completely exhausted. This discussion had lasted long enough. “I… I can’t give you an answer right away, Your Grace,” he said tiredly, while distractedly passing both his hands over his face. “Give me some time to think it over at least.”

 

“Sure, no problem. Take all the time you need,” the king acceded as graciously as only one with his title could. Then, his face took on a mischievous expression and he added, “In fact, I’ll not even accept that you answer before at least a fortnight has passed. It’ll give you plenty of time to ponder all my arguments and furthermore, by then we’ll know for sure if your servants have kept quiet about this affair or not. If it comes to the worst and you have not wavered, it still won’t be too late to send your daughter away.”

 

Ned sighed and nodded, defeated. The king had won the battle, there was no point in denying it. On the up side though, the delay Robert had imposed on him would give him more time to think of a way he might relate the recent events to Catelyn and he badly needed every instant he could get…


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since you’ve been all so good, here’s a short Sansa POV for you all!
> 
> A little warning though: the fourth paragraph contains some suicidal thoughts for those who are sensitive over the matter.

**Sansa**

Under Septa Mordane’s heavy scrutiny, Sansa drank the last sip that still soaked the bottom of her mug, her face wrinkled in distaste as it went down her throat. She had grown to despise the taste of moon tea. Since Sandor had been caught escaping from her room four days ago, she had been forced to absorb a cup of the thick beverage each morning after she broke her fast and she had now come to associate its herbal flavour with the misfortunes that had lately befallen her.

 

“Perfect, young lady,” Septa Mordane commented, nodding approvingly once Sansa had settled the empty mug on the table.

 

The old woman always watched as she drank and never failed to glance into her cup to make sure not a single drop was left unconsumed. _They really don’t want me to carry Sandor’s child,_ Sansa reflected with resentment, distractedly hugging her middle. A sennight before, the idea of bearing Sandor’s baby had never even crossed her mind but now that the prospect that his seed might quicken in her womb seemed to fill her close circle with horror, it had become her biggest dream. 

 

While her newborn desire was partly due to the uncharacteristic spark of rebellion that being forcibly separated from the man of her life had sown in her, curiosity to see what a child made from her flesh and his would look like and the burning lust to carry a part of him in her wherever she went were what mostly fed her longing. _But it will never happen!_ Sansa reminded herself, tears threatening to well in her eyes. Her lord father had told her the Hound would leave at dawn the next day and she doubted she would ever see him again afterwards. _We were supposed to elope…_ Sansa regretted disconsolately. The bolt of pain that assailed her at the thought was too much for her and the tears she had previously managed to restrain from pearling in her eyes rolled down her cheeks. That life could be so cruel was simply unbearable. Many times since her hopes had been shattered, the girl had wondered as her whole body shook with incontrollable sobs, if going on was worth the effort. Perhaps jumping off her balcony would be a more merciful fate than struggling through a pitiful life without Sandor. In that instant as she tried to stop herself from weeping in front of Septa Mordane, she once more contemplated that tempting alternative, wishing she had the nerve to act upon it. It would be such a sweet antidote to her misery and her tragic and untimely death would be _everyone’s_ fault but hers. Her lord father, the king, Septa Mordane and the entire court: they would all bitterly regret not having allowed her to follow her heart by marrying Sandor. Her shocking and heart-rending destiny would be related in songs for hundreds and hundreds of years, reminding fathers and kings alike what affliction may strike when true love is broken.

 

“So, Lady Sansa, are we ready to head for the Sept for our daily prayer to the Seven?” Septa Mordane inquired, following Sansa’s movements with piercing eyes as the girl softly wiped her tears away with her silk handkerchief. “I’m not quite certain you have repented in their eyes yet.” Her mouth was curved in that tight-lipped, faint smile she sported whenever she mentioned Sansa’s misbehaviour.  

 

“Of course, Septa Mordane,” Sansa replied, her voice sounding defeated and meek to her own ears.

 

The old woman’s attitude toward her was mostly unchanged and she was still kind to Sansa but it was evident she had taken badly to her pupil’s misconduct. The girl was torn between feeling guilty and heartbroken to be the cause of such disappointment, and frustrated that no one understood nor cared about her feelings. To her lord father and Septa Mordane, she was only a naughty child to be punished.

 

As they went down the stairs, Sansa was relieved not to cross anyone’s path, until they met one of her handmaiden who was heading to her chamber with some clean sheets. Mortified, she lowered her eyes at meeting the woman and only resumed breathing normally when her footfalls echoed far above her. It had been the latter who had first found the blood stain in Sansa’s bed and the remembrance was still extremely embarrassing to her.

 

Running into anyone was always so very awkward. Had the person Sansa faced heard about what had happened? she would wonder. And if so, did they judge her? She could never tell and therefore, always assumed the worst. Father had assured her that for the time being, her reputation was safe for no one was allowed to speak of the _incident_ , as he called it. Furthermore, he had even requested that everyone privy to the situation hold their tongues even with others who knew, so that those who had not been awakened by the noise the Hound’s pursuit had made would stay ignorant.

 

The stratagem had apparently worked since Jeyne had come to Sansa’s chamber the previous day and although she had noticed some changes in the tower and been obviously very worried, no one had given her any details.

 

“Something happened but no one will tell me,” she had complained, peering at Sansa with suspicion from her place on the threshold. “Your lord father looks tenser than I’ve ever seen him and the guards have been so agitated lately… Please don’t tell me it has to do with the letter I brought to the Hound for you! Please!”

 

Immobile in her seat near the window, Sansa had stayed silent and only stared at her embroidery, unwilling to lie. She was getting really sick of continuously being forced to come up with stories for everything. It made her feel so dirty.

 

“Oh no, Sansa! What did you do? What did I participate in?” Jeyne had cried, her hands balled into tight fists. The notion that she might have unknowingly participated in something she could guess she would never have approved of was clearly both devastating and horrifying to her. 

 

Again, Sansa hadn’t answered and only turned to gaze out of the open window, wishing she could fly into the blue sky and disappear forever.

 

At seeing she wouldn’t get any reply, the young commoner had shaken her head in a mix of despair and disgust and stormed out of the room, banging the door behind her. They hadn’t talked since and Sansa was in no hurry to resume their conversation.

 

At least Arya seemed oblivious to anything abnormal happening in the tower. Or perhaps was she glad that for once, it wasn’t her that drew their father’s and Septa Mordane’s ire? Whatever it was, her behaviour with Sansa was as insufferable as always but for the first time, the girl wouldn’t have wished it otherwise. Her sister’s whining and scoffing was a breath of fresh air in the midst of the heavy silence her handmaidens fell into anytime they cleaned her chamber and the severe but uneasy glances she received from Septa Mordane and Father.

 

The sunlight was blinding and hurt Sansa’s weary-from-crying eyes as she and Septa Mordane crossed the middle bailey. Thankfully, the sept was just a few steps away and they quickly entered through the ajar door. The dimness and coolness they found inside was in violent contrast with the summer weather outside and had a soothing effect on the daughter of the north. She was grateful to be allowed that short outing every day; it was perhaps the only moment that she found a measure of solace in the rest of her doleful routine. The sept was very peaceful and beautiful with its seven great statues, each representing a different aspect of the faith and standing against one of the building’s seven walls. All were exquisitely sculpted, their meticulously detailed divine features and draped clothes glowing under the candlelight and Sansa never failed to feel slightly better at beholding the familiar forms.

 

“Why don’t you start with the Maiden again this morning, Lady Sansa?” Septa Mordane suggested, nodding at the white marble sculpture. “She’s the one you need ask for forgiveness the most. As I already told you, a young lady who has faltered does not have to carry her disgrace forever. The gods are merciful and could grant you absolution, making you as pure as you ever were again, yet until you truly show remorse it won’t be possible. Be open in your prayers instead of shutting yourself to the Maiden’s grace, my child, and she’ll guide you to the right path.”

 

Blushing at the old woman’s implication, the girl slowly walked to the Maiden’s statue and knelt before it. As she did, Septa Mordane headed to the Crone’s - her favourite – putting her back to Sansa. Many tall, cream-colour candles were lit on the altar and Sansa stared at their halos for a few seconds before taking a deep breath of incense-filled air and joining her hands in prayer. Her eyes shut, she leaned her brow against her knuckles and began. _Dear Maiden. I would really love to do as Septa Mordane asks but please understand my struggle! It’s not that I don’t want to be forgiven, only that I have a hard time believing my love for Sandor wasn’t a godly plan. Please, be so kind as to send me a sign if I err so that I can start to truly repent or else, I’ll never be able to follow your will. And if Sandor and I are indeed made for each other, I beg you to help us to be reunited!_

Sansa had not finished her prayer when she sensed a presence and opened her eyes. Immediately, she noticed a shadow moving behind the barely-lit sculpture of the Stranger not too far from her side. Her heart jumping into her throat, she lifted her head, her hands loosening and her mouth gaping. _It’s impossible! How could…?_ she mused at contemplating the Hound’s form taking shape in the shadows. When their eyes met, he brought his index finger to his mouth to bid her remain silent. Trembling, Sansa obeyed, averting her stare with much difficulty. _What does he intend to do?_ she wondered in a panic, shutting her eyes as tightly as she could, her hands clutched together painfully. Somehow, she had an inkling Sandor’s oncoming actions would involve Septa Mordane and as appalling as assaulting an old lady was, warning her of what was to come didn’t even cross her mind.

 

And indeed a moment later, she heard the septa’s muffled and almost inaudible cry for help.

 

“Don’t hurt her!” Sansa instantly begged, jerking her head their way.

 

“I won’t,” the Hound replied, tying some fabric over her mouth.

 

Septa Mordane was uselessly struggling against his hold, her old limbs completely powerless against the man’s nearly unrivalled strength. Despite her excitement to see Sandor, Sansa felt a pang of guilt at the sight. Septa Mordane was a kind woman and certainly didn’t deserve to be treated so. Gazing away in shame, the girl stood up, unsure whether she should jump into the Hound’s arms or show some restraint out of respect for her teacher’s predicament.

 

“H… how did you know I’d be here?” she asked in a small, shaking voice as she turned to face him, all the while avoiding eye contact with the old septa.

 

Sandor snorted. He was now circling a long rope around the woman’s body. She had stopped resisting and was hanging limp in his clutches. “Greed can get you a long way, you know. I bribed one of the men the king has assigned to guard me so that he would bribe one of your handmaidens. Anyone is corruptible with the right amount of gold,” he stated, a crooked grin twisting his lips.

 

Sansa doubted that even with all the Lannisters’ gold, her lord father could be bought but she kept her disagreement to herself.

 

“Your handmaiden informed my guard you went to the sept every morning with your septa when he asked if you ever got out of the Hand’s tower these days. When he told me, I knew that was my only chance to get to you,” the Hound explained, sounding satisfied with himself.

 

Poor Septa Mordane was now completely tied-up. Sandor was installing her in the darkest corner of the sept, just behind the Stranger’s altar where he had waited earlier on, and Sansa approached her to make certain she was not too uncomfortable. _She’ll be fine_ , she tried to convince herself at seeing the Hound had seated her against the wall and that her ties didn’t appear so tight it would leave bruises. A part of Sansa wanted to kneel by the woman’s side and whisper a few reassuring words but another was too abashed by the situation to move any nearer. In the end, she gathered that confronting Septa Mordane’s disapproving gaze would hurt her as much as peering directly at the sun and walked toward the Hound instead. Besides, she was really curious to learn of his intentions.

 

“And what… what are your plans now?” she asked a little breathlessly, her neck craned to gaze at him.

 

“Nothing has changed, little bird,” he rasped, sheathing the dagger he had used to cut the rope at his sword belt. He was wearing light armour of leather and a coat of mail and had his long sword at his hip. “I still intend on fleeing from the city with you. Nothing will stop me from making you my wife.”

 

At that, strangled laments were heard coming from Septa Mordane.

 

Sansa tried to ignore the complaints no matter how terrible she felt. Yet, there was no denying that her remorse at putting the woman through such an ordeal wasn’t strong enough to overshadow the exaltation that hearing the Hound’s words had roused in her. She was so proud of him! He had overcome nearly impossible odds with his resourcefulness and matchless determination and would prevail over every obstacle that was put in his way, never quitting until he got exactly what he longed for: _her_. Sansa sighed dreamily. Sandor had no equal in all of the Seven Kingdoms and very soon, she would be his wife and he, her husband!

 

Squeaking in happiness, she jumped into his arms, Septa Mordane’s presence all but forgotten. “Oh, Sandor!” she cried, pressing her head against his massive chest.

 

Grunting softly, the man slid his large hands around her waist and pulled her nearer. Feeling his warm and solid body against hers was so comforting to Sansa that she was now convinced naught could ever go wrong again for the rest of her life. Yet, just as she was breathing in the Hound’s manly sent, an idea suddenly struck her and she raised her head to look at him.

 

“But, Sandor?” she asked, fear rising in the pit of her stomach. “How will we ever manage to get out of the keep without being halted by gold cloaks?”

 

Sandor smirked at her question. “Don’t you worry, Sansa. I told you already: greed will get you a long way and one of my guards is a very greedy fellow indeed.” He sniggered at that, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “This will teach the king to hire the lowliest sell swords there is and then appoint the buggers to watch over a man just as bloody amoral as them.” Lowering his lips to her ear, the Hound resumed in a hoarse whisper, a smile in his voice: “I know a secret passage that will get us not too far from the Mud Gate. Its entrance is only a few yards from the sept’s back door so we should manage to get to it unnoticed. The guard I told you about is waiting for us as we speak with my horse and some of my things in a stable not far from where we’ll emerge. I told him I’d give him even more gold once we get there. The lucky bastard will leave the capital today and return to his native Braavos a richer man. I don’t think he’ll ever be coming back to Westeros again.”

 

Relief flowed over Sansa as she listened to the Hound’s account. _He always has a solution for everything!_ she thought with admiration,  her heart threatening to explode from the overwhelming love she felt for him. So they truly were going to elope after all! _The gods have answered my payers,_ Sansa realised, beaming at Sandor, her eyes shiny with tears of joy. She would never doubt that their marriage was the Seven’s will again and would show her gratitude by being as good and dutiful a wife as was preached in the holy texts. Elated, she got on her toes and kissed him passionately.

 

“Let’s go now, little bird,” the Hound muttered, breaking their kiss an instant later and gently pushing her from him with his hands on her upper arms. “We’d better hurry before someone notices you’ve been gone for longer than usual.”

 

Her eyes suddenly wide and serious, Sansa nodded, smiling as he settled his palm between her shoulder blades and started guiding her to the back of the sept.

 

Sandor was about to open the door when Septa Mordane’s muted wailings stopped him in his movements. Snorting, he glanced at the darkness behind the Stranger’s altar where he knew the old woman was sitting, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

 

“No need to be fretting, Septa. I’m going to take good care of the apple of your eye,” he rasped before they left the sept for good.


	15. Chapter 15

**Eddard**

“This is a catastrophe, Your Grace! A real catastrophe!” Ned was repeating, his voice booming loudly through the king’s solar.

 

Throughout the day, Eddard had sent Robert a few missives to keep him informed of the situation, however he had been too busy to visit him until now. He had only arrived at the king’s apartments a moment before, just after having very reluctantly reached the conclusion that given the search had now stalled, there was no more he could do for the time being. The day had been beyond stressful and the man was totally exhausted, yet the dread of not knowing his daughter’s whereabouts kept him energised in an agitated sort of way that made him feel terrible. There was no doubting he looked like a wreck, still his appearance was the least of his worries

 

And to think the day had started so quietly! Nothing could have prepared Ned for the shock of learning Sandor Clegane had somehow managed to elude his guards and snatch Sansa from the sept. The news had spread like wildfire through the Hand’s Tower and Ned had not waited an instant before assigning nearly the totality of his household to scour the Red Keep. Very soon though it had become evident that in spite of how well the castle’s gates were watched and the fact that the gold cloaks on duty all swore they hadn’t seen them break free, not extending the search to the whole city would’ve been unwise. Clegane was a very resourceful and relentless man, after all, and since he had lived in the Red Keep for years now and was sure to know the place better than most, the possibility that he had found a way to escape unobserved certainly couldn’t be overlooked. By now, Ned’s men had visited every last inn and tavern the town contained and questioned each gold cloak they could find – starting with those posted at the city gates, of course - but all to no avail.

 

 _And it’s getting dark now_ , Eddard noticed in distress after gazing out the window. If his daughter and the Hound had managed to escape King’s Landing, they could already be very far away. Yet the man had not a single clue of the direction they might have taken. Worse: although he doubted it, they could also be hiding somewhere in the Red Keep for all he knew. To not have even an inkling of where they might be was simply unbearable!

 

Installed in his armchair, Robert was watching him darkly, for once seemingly only slightly calmer than him. “We’ll find a way out of this, Ned. I’m sure we will,” he was mumbling, hardly sounding like he believed his own words.

 

“But I don’t see how, Your Grace!” Eddard snapped angrily, throwing his hands in the air and turning to face the king. “This time, everyone will know! They’ll be no muffling the affair!”

 

It had been a group of noblewomen among the most gossipy at court that had first sounded the alarm around noon after they had chanced upon Septa Mordane tied-up in the sept. That, in addition to the fact that his guards had turned both the Red Keep and the city upside down in their hunt for Sansa made it impossible that rumours of her disappearance with the Hound wouldn’t be on every inhabitant’s lips by tomorrow. At that rate, he had best send Catelyn a letter very soon or else word of Sansa’s misadventure would travel north faster than his raven would ever get a chance to. _No, my letter needs to wait a few days yet,_ Ned decided after an instant of hesitation. As much as composing his previous attempts had been strenuous, at least at the time Sansa had been safe and sound in her chamber. Now that he had lost her altogether, Ned simply couldn’t bring himself to contact his wife. He needed to retrieve their daughter first.

 

When the noblewomen had found her, poor Septa Mordane had been left bound in a corner of the sept for a few hours already. She was now resting in bed in a state of shock and had been given dreamwine by Grand Maester Pycelle to calm her nerves. To tie-up and then abandon a woman of her age on the hard, cold ground for hours was beyond Ned. Few things were less honourable than assaulting those who couldn’t defend themselves. The Hound apparently had no moral limits but what else could be expected of a man who had served the Lannisters for so long?

 

“Have a drink of wine, Ned,” the king proposed, pouring some of the dark liquid into two tankards. Given the delicate subject matter at hand, they had both agreed no manservant or Kingsguard should be admitted to the solar and thus Robert had no choice but to serve himself. “It will do you some good.”

 

For once, Eddard complied and accepted the tankard Robert was handing him. It was strong wine, he realised, his face wrinkling and eyes watering at its bite. Still, he took another sip before setting it down on the table.

 

“As you can probably guess, Cersei has already heard and she’s furious,” the king began sombrely. “She has explicitly demanded that I cancel the betrothal. I haven’t given her an answer yet but I fear I’ll have no choice but to grant her wish. What with everyone knowing Clegane made off with your daughter, you know that it won’t be hard for her to convince the High Septon to assent either. While I still maintain that maidenhood is not of utmost importance in a princely wedding, I cannot deny that a future queen’s previous _experience_ cannot be public knowledge.”

 

“Of course, I understand and I don’t hold it against you,” Ned told his friend flatly, his mouth pulled into a deep frown. Leaning his back against the wall, he shut his eyes and began massaging his brow. “If only he solely wanted to… to…” he murmured wearily, unsure he really wished to speak the rest of his thoughts aloud.

 

Cracking an eye open to glance at the king, he saw that the latter was watching him attentively, eager to hear where he was getting at. Eddard sighed. It was best he disclosed all the information he had, no matter how much sharing his family problems with an outsider didn’t appeal to him.

 

“Septa Mordane heard some of their conversation while they were still in the sept. The Hound plans to marry her, by the old gods!” he exclaimed disbelievingly, shaking his head in total despair. “We Starks being who we are, I could still get Sansa a respectable match in the North with a lesser House in spite of a tarnished reputation. I have no idea of how that blasted Hound did it but they have apparently completely vanished from the castle! My hope is that they are still somewhere in the city but the chances of that are getting increasingly thin as the hours pass. The gold cloaks that guard the city gates have been instructed to be especially vigilant and to halt any couple that looks suspicious. Yet although I pray I’m wrong, I’m almost sure they’re already out, somewhere. And then, once they reach the countryside, finding a sept won’t be very difficult…”

 

The king growled something that sounded slightly like a laugh but was devoid of any humour. “I see where you’re going with this. That he’d only be interested in deflowering her would have been preferable. The problem, Ned, is that Aderlardus’ potion was a _love_ -philtre. Perhaps for the first time, our Hound is in love and since your daughter returns his feelings, I don’t see him settling for anything less than being her husband. He’ll marry her as soon as he has the chance and once that’s done-”

 

Cringing, Eddard interrupted the king, absurdly irked to hear him come to the same conclusion he had. “Yes, that’s what I was getting at! A consensual, consummated wedding is very hard to cancel!” Eddard vociferated while glaring at his friend as if it was his fault.

 

“Hard to cancel?!” Robert laughed grimly. “I’m sorry to crush your hopes but if they wed before you find them, it’s going to be a done deal. I think you’d better get used to the idea of having Clegane as your son-in-law already, Ned! The High Septon won’t grant you such a demand in these conditions.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Eddard left the wall he had been standing against and took a few steps toward the king, his hands balled in tight fists by his sides. “We’re Northerners though, Your Grace,” he began defiantly, his tone deceptively low and soft. “Back in Winterfell, we marry before Heart Trees and the belief you southerners have in the new gods is a foreign faith that hardly holds any power and authority.”

 

“Mmmm…” the king grunted with evident irritation, a deep frown creasing his brow. “You’re venturing into very dangerous ground here, Ned. The North might be independent to some extent but if you act as if a ceremony celebrated by the Seven’s order has no legitimacy within your borders, you’ll raise the Faith’s ire for sure. It would be a precedent the High Septon could not tolerate. The Faith’s acts must be legal throughout the realm, from Dorne to the North, or else trouble will arise. You must realise it yourself, you being the Hand.”

 

Ned winced and took a long, deep breath before letting himself fall heavily in his armchair. “Of course, that was foolish of me. Forgive me, Your Grace,” he acceded with some reluctance, cradling his head in his hands. Admitting to his helplessness hurt so much. An internal war could indeed be started from acting so carelessly and taking such risks was certainly no viable option. Yet as a father, seeing that he was losing control over his daughter’s future was extremely painful.

 

“So what are you going to do, Ned?” the king asked after a long pause.

 

“I’m not sure yet. I need to consider all my options first,” Eddard muttered, each word he spoke so very hard to pronounce. He had never felt so drained in his entire life. “In the meantime though, finding Sansa is my priority. I fear most of all that she and the Hound will leave the continent and that I will lose track of her forever. Some of my men have already combed through every ship anchored in port and a few will stay on the docks as long as necessary and check every new passenger that gets aboard. However, King’s Landing isn’t the only port nearby. A few teams have already departed to scout the lands around the capital but as long as we have no clue of the direction they took – or if they even left King’s Landing at all! – it seems a little pointless. For the time being, my only hope is that at least one of the gold cloaks that were on duty this morning at one of the city gates might recall having seen them. I’ve put Jory and a few other men in charge of finding and interrogating each of them individually. I keep my fingers crossed that there’ll finally be a breakthrough once that’s done.”

 

“I pray you’re lucky enough but in all honesty, it seems pretty unlikely. You know how thick the press of travellers can be sometimes…”

 

“You don’t need to remind me, Your Grace,” Ned breathed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s almost hopeless.”

 

Dejected, Ned leaned back in his armchair and took a long gulp from his tankard. He was setting it down again, feeling his head turn slightly from the alcohol when Ser Barristan’s call was heard.

 

“Your Grace! Jory just arrived!” he exclaimed.

 

“Let him in!” was the king’s immediate answer. Both he and Ned exchanged a look, their shared unease palpable.

 

In the same instant, the door opened and Jory stormed in, out of breath.

 

“Your Grace… Lord Stark… One of the men we’ve interrogated…” he paused, panting. “He thinks he’s seen them… going out the Mud Gate. He’s pretty sure it was them, in fact.”

 

Ned stood up at once. “We’re going Jory. No time to lose.”

 

 

**Sandor**

“Little bird, don’t be scared. Nothing will hurt you as long as I’m by your side,” Sandor was murmuring from his seat on a boulder not far from her.

 

He had just taken off his light armour and was now down to his tunic and breeches. It wouldn’t do to crush her with his chain mail tonight as they shared their lone bedroll, after all. In his hurry organising their flight, Sandor had not bothered getting a second one and they would thus have to share his. It was perhaps better this way though. Looking at the fearful expression she bore, there was no doubting the girl would probably sleep better by his side. Besides, Sandor was a big man, so if the bedroll was large enough to accommodate him, there would be space for the little bird also. She was such a small thing, after all.

 

Her upper body propped on her elbow, Sansa was lying under a warm fur while glancing nervously at the dark forest that surrounded them. The sun had set about a half-hour before and the nocturnal forest life was active by now. _So many strange sounds for a girl unused to sleeping in the open_ ,Sandor mused, the corner of his lips curving in both amusement and fondness. While the woods were impressively lit by the full moon, it was nonetheless hard to discern what all those thick branches and bushes concealed and a girl with an imagination as wild as Sansa’s was sure to believe some mythical monster was hidden close by. Sandor had preferred not to start a fire tonight in case one of the Hand’s men passed by the nearest road and noticed their presence. As far as he was concerned, the latter were the only real danger they needed to fear. That her father’s scouts would catch up with them so soon was highly unlikely though. Thanks to that secret passage Sandor had discovered a few years back in one of those dark corners he liked to frequent when he drank by himself, he and Sansa certainly had a good lead on their pursuers. _That’s if the buggers know the direction we’ve taken at all_ , he reflected contentedly. Logically _,_ they wouldn’t.

 

The guard that had helped Sandor organise his escape had been waiting in some poxy stable with Stranger and a few of his things when he and the little bird emerged from their long walk in the passage. As soon as he had received his extra gold, the man had left King’s Landing to catch a ship at Maidenpool. That had been a wise move with which Sandor had agreed since his role in their flight would become evident once the other guard on duty at the time of his disappearance was found tied-up in a cupboard. Just before he gave him his gold, Sandor had asked the Braavosi to purchase a large scarf from a merchant nearby so that the little bird could hide her beautiful but distinctive red locks as they decamped through the Mud Gate. Himself, he had worn a hooded cloak pulled over his face as much as possible. While the precautions they had taken were certainly better than none at all, Sandor was still not foolish enough to believe a man of his size astride a stallion as fearsome as Stranger wouldn’t look conspicuous – especially with a young lady so obviously highborn as Sansa as a passenger. On the other hand, there had been hundreds of people getting in and out of the city pretty much at the same time they had and guards always kept their eyes mostly on those who entered. Furthermore, that he had made off with the Hand’s daughter had then still most likely been unknown judging by how bored and distracted the gold cloaks had seemed. No one had been looking for them yet. _We’ll be fine._ _No one noticed us,_ Sandor decided, pleased with the turn the situation had taken.

 

“See my sword, Sansa?” he asked the little bird, seizing the weapon’s hilt from the ground beside him. “I’ll kill anyone - men and creatures alike - who dares threaten a single hair on your head. You’ve naught to fear.”

 

The girl smiled faintly but a second had not passed before an animal’s cry caught her attention. Her eyes filling with apprehension, she immediately jerked her head in the noise’s direction. “I trust you, Sandor - more than anyone else in all the Seven Kingdoms!” she assured him, all the while still looking in the unknown creature’s direction. “Yet, I’ve never spent much time in the woods at night, with no protection at all…”

 

“I’m all the protection you need, girl, believe me,” Sandor insisted, leaning forward and squaring his shoulders. “No bloody tent, inn or even buggering castle will ever shelter you as well as myself.”

 

His confidence seemed to quiet her and she laid her back completely against their bedroll at last. “I can’t wait for us to be married,” she murmured so very softly a few instants later while shutting her eyes and pulling her fur over her chest.

 

Under the moonlight, Sansa could have passed for some bloody godlike apparition, her ethereal features too perfect to be true. The sight alone would’ve been enough to break a man’s heart, so beautiful it hurt and the notion that she would very soon officially become his was beyond gratifying to Sandor.

 

“Don’t worry, pretty bird,” he began, his gravelly voice sounding strangely fervent to his own ears. Even more peculiar though was how much the knowledge that a helpless and naïve girl half his age had succeeded in transforming him into a pathetic love-stricken fool didn’t even bother him. Unfazed, Sandor snorted and continued just as earnestly. “I know the area and as I’ve already told you, a hamlet with its own small sept is only a few minutes from the glade we’re in.”

 

After he and the little bird had put King’s Landing behind their backs, they had ridden along the Goldroad before following a smaller rural lane that led to the heavily wooded area they were now in. The region was perfect, for it offered cover whilst being near King’s Landing and housing a few villages.

 

“We’re going to rest for just a few hours now and before dawn tomorrow, we’ll be heading for the sept. At such an early hour, we’ll be sure to catch the septon by surprise and the place won’t be full of buggering peasants,” Sandor explained, smirking at seeing how attentively Sansa was listening. Baring his teeth even more, he left his place on the boulder and got to the girl’s side on the bedroll. “Hear my words: we’ll be husband and wife before the sun’s completely up tomorrow,” he promised, sliding a hand around her waist over the fur.

 

The idea seemed to enchant the little bird. “Oh, Sandor!” she cried blissfully, circling her arms around his neck. “That’s all I dream of! I hope no one ever manages to separate us again.”

 

“I’ll die before that happens, Sansa, and I’ve every intention of staying alive for quite a damned while yet. Your father’s not done with me,” Sandor rasped lowly, nuzzling at her neck and breathing in that sweet scent of hers. “You’re mine and there’s not a man in Westeros that’ll make me believe otherwise.”

 

To prove his point, Sandor brought his lips to hers and kissed her tenderly. There was no restraining his ardour for very long though and the kiss rapidly became more passionate and demanding. Already, his cock had grown pretty stiff and felt cramped in his breeches. That and the fact that the little bird’s body was so soft and supple under his touch were giving Sandor ideas. _And why not, after all?_ he wondered. She was no maiden anymore and they would wed as soon as tomorrow. She was _his_.

 

A mischievous half-grin twisting his lips, Sandor rolled to his side and threw the fur away without any prior warning.

 

“Oh! But I’m _cold_ , Sandor!” Sansa complained, obviously not truly mad.

 

Sandor snorted. “There, there, I’m coming to warm you,” he hushed her while installing himself flush against her and trailing a hand over her clothed curves. “Sansa…” he breathed in her ear, biting at the whiteness of her neck. “I want to take you here…”

 

At hearing his intentions, the girl grew silent and tensed. She had probably believed until now that people only did it in beds but he would prove her wrong very soon. Without waiting for her to reply, he grabbed the hem of her skirts and pulled the lavish fabric over her stomach, uncovering long and perfect lean legs that glowed under the moonlight. Sandor grunted in satisfaction at the sight and immediately began caressing the length of one of her silky thighs from the knee up. When his hand got to her bunched skirts, it stroked her waist just an instant before he quickly continued his ascent, not stopping until he had reached her oh-so-bloody-mouth-watering breasts. Seven hells but they felt fine under his palm, even covered by her gown as they were. Kneading one gently, Sandor cursed under his breath, overwhelmed by the effect the simple gesture had on him. The little bird’s body was all the fire latent in him needed to ignite. No one could pretend to truly control fire, Sandor knew it well enough, and his desire for her was no different. It would consume her completely and mercilessly and only once the man had reached the release he sought in her would it recede. Yet the cycle of his lust for her would never die and that was a buggering given; it would repeat itself as surely as the sun rose every morning, same as flames could always be revived.

 

Very briefly, Sandor tried to undo the laces of Sansa’s bodice but they were too tight and unyielding. He didn’t have the patience to struggle and thus chose to only slide his hand inside and palm her delicious, firm teats. Her nipples were taut and pointy, as he had hoped and he pinched one before rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. The girl was breathing hard, her eyes shut and luscious mouth opened so very invitingly. There was no way Sandor could resist the temptation. His fingers still teasing her nipple, he brought his face near hers to nibble at the plumpness of her pink lips. The little bird reacted with enthusiasm, shortly pointing her tender little tongue out, which Sandor swiftly mirrored by meeting her tongue with his own in a wet and languorous embrace.

 

As engorged and heavy as it had gotten, Sandor’s manhood was aching for some sort of contact, friction or whatever could relieve it of some of its tension - even momentarily. Impulsively, the man pushed it against the girl’s side, rubbing it vigorously, but the action had the opposite result as it only amplified his thirst further.

 

“Oh,” the girl let out in something between a whimper and a gasp, breaking their kiss.

 

Hearing Sansa’s soft cry did nothing to quell the man. “Hard, isn’t?” he remarked, still pressing his erection against her. “You don’t need to do much to put me in that state, girl, believe that.”

 

His crude comment added to the imposing shape of his shaft standing between them induced a deep blush to redden the little bird’s usually milky complexion and such a show of timidity was naught if not stirring. Sandor was on the verge of losing it; that he fucked her _at once_ was becoming essential – bloody vital even. There wouldn’t be much foreplay this time but it was all for the better. They needed to rest soon after all, for the night would be very short.

 

Caressing her cheek, neck and collarbone with possessive fingers, Sandor looked her in the eyes with hunger and started speaking, his tone urgent and intent. “Sansa, my pretty little bird, I know you deserve nothing but the best yet tonight we’ll need to make an exception and be quick. I promise you though that once we’re wed, I’ll get us a nice room in some inn with a comfy featherbed and all. I’ll worship your body then and make you sing for me but we’ve no time for that right now.”

 

Smiling shyly, the little bird nodded her agreement and Sandor immediately grasped her underclothes and began pulling them down. She moved her pelvis upward to help him as he brought the garment along her thighs and lifted her legs into the air once he got to her ankles, toes pointed, to make his task easier. _What a good girl she is,_ Sandor mused contentedly as he threw her undergarment away _._ That life had given him such a beautiful and obedient woman was still staggering to him but he would make the most of it and never act as if he didn’t deserve his luck lest the girl or the bloody gods themselves noticed their mistake and took her away from him.

 

His access to her cunt now completely unobstructed, Sandor didn’t wait an instant before dipping his fingers between its folds and spreading the moisture he found there. She was wet, he realised with satisfaction, although perhaps not quite enough. Since the night would be short and he didn’t have a moment to spare, Sandor raised his fingers to his mouth and spit on them before pushing his forefinger into her. Sansa groaned at the invasion but her body didn’t show much resistance and hastily began opening for him. Nevertheless, the space he was creating was still incredibly tight - she had been a maiden just a few days prior and it showed - yet it would suffice to start. Sandor didn’t harbour a single doubt that he would find his way in and that her insides would stretch to accommodate him, as they should.

 

His fingers leaving her warmth, the man began unlacing his breeches and just a couple of eye blinks later, his cock was totally freed. With his hands, he parted her legs before installing himself between them.

 

“Ready?” he inquired, pointing the head of his cock toward her entrance.

 

Snaking her thin arms around his shoulders, Sansa answered in a barely audible whisper. “Yes,” she said, fear shining in her eyes and mingling with excitement. Getting fucked was still a novelty to her and thus it was only natural that she’d be a little nervous even though she had no veil to break anymore. She would get used to it very soon though – Sandor would make certain of that.

 

Biting at his lip, the man started rocking his hips back and forth as carefully as he could as he started penetrating her, however, keeping a relatively slow cadence was proving quite a challenge. With every new thrust of his swollen member, fighting his impulse to dig deeper into her faster was growingly arduous. Cursing and growling in pleasure at the same time, Sandor quit trying and let his shaft slide into her in one long plunge until he was completely sheathed. Sansa’s lithe frame became taut under him and he halted – out of breath and sweaty - to give her a chance to relax and adjust. He didn’t pause very long though; Sandor’s blood was far too heated for patience and therefore, he resumed his claiming of her almost at once, this time without even attempting to contain his passion.

 

Fucking Sansa was so bloody good, it was somehow almost unbearable. She was simply too stunning; watching her with her eyelids half-shut, long eyelashes and perfect mouth agape while feeling her sweet cleft burning and squeezing his cock so firmly was like an exquisite torture. Indeed, to have her was incredibly exhilarating and Sandor would have wished the moment never to end and yet, there was no way in all the fucking Seven Hells that a man could last longer than a couple of minutes while taking such a goddess. It was beyond frustrating but Sandor couldn’t deny it any longer: his bloody climax was already dangerously close.

 

“By the fucking Stranger, what is it you do, girl…?” he mumbled, his voice as hoarse as if he had been travelling through a desert for days.

 

His lack of control with her was disconcerting. At his age, Sandor had long lost the habit of reaching his peak after just a few shoves. There was something slightly embarrassing and pathetic about being on equal footing with the bloody green boys he had for squires. _Bugger that._ _Why should I resist? The little bird herself has agreed when I told her I’d be fast and besides, she has no point of reference and doesn’t know better anyway,_ Sandor abruptly decided. Yielding to his most basic instincts, he clutched her hip with one hand and began pumping himself between her thighs even more frantically with the sole goal of being done with it as soon as he could.

 

“Sandor,” the little bird suddenly called.

 

“What is it, Sansa?” Sandor grunted, without ceasing his movements or even jerking his head up to gaze at her, so engrossed in his comings and goings as he was.

 

“Don’t you think that… that… if my lord father was to catch us after we wed, it’d be even better if not only we were married but… but…” the girl murmured, her speech made uneven and difficult by his constant pounding.

 

“But _what_?” Sandor repeated, unable to hide his impatience. The damned girl would make him lose his focus and botch his climax if she didn’t stop her bloody chirping soon. Slowing his pace, he braced his back and fixed his stare on her.

 

Sansa blushed and lowered her eyes but she continued anyhow. “Perhaps… perhaps if I were already with… with _child_ when they found us, we’d have less chance that they wouldn’t acknowledge our alliance?” she proposed meekly.

 

Her statement instantly suspended Sandor in his action and he became as immobile as a statue. For a second or two, he was too astounded to react or even truly comprehend what the little bird had implied but then it dawned on him and a stupid grin formed on his lips.

 

Sansa _fucking_ Stark, the always so proper little lady, had just expressly requested that he come to completion in the comfort of her cunt and spill his seed in her. It was easy to guess she had had to gather all her courage to voice her idea aloud but it was also obvious she had pondered over it previously and had not spoken on a whim. She genuinely wanted him to do it and the notion was a buggering dream come true.

 

While Sandor had not a damned ounce of interest in children and becoming a father was the last thing on his mind, he was no more than a man after all and a slave to his instincts. As such, the concept of filling a woman’s womb had always been undeniably more enticing than pulling out and spending himself on her stomach. No sound male would ever pretend he preferred otherwise. It wasn’t just a question of the warmth and tightness one was forced to leave but also the unpardonable waste of good semen it seemed. There was something very unnatural about not putting it where it was meant to end. Moreover in this particular case, Sansa was _his_ and he wanted to brand her inside and out, to make his possession of her evident to anyone from the moment they glimpsed her and what better way to mark his territory than giving her a big belly?

 

For these reasons, Sansa’s proposition was far too appealing to refuse no matter the trouble having to deal with a crying babe would bring them later on. Anyhow, caring for children was a woman’s job so he need not worry about that just yet. Sandor would not have much to do until the boys were old enough to start learning to wield a sword.

 

“You don’t have to ask me twice, you naughty little bird,” the man rasped in a low, almost threatening voice, a wolfish grin curving his lips.

 

Without delay, he clamped the side of Sansa’s arse cheek with his hand and resumed plunging his shaft in and out of her burning-hot cleft. If he had feared her earlier interruption might decrease the intensity of his arousal and peak, he had been wrong, oh so wrong. To have been allowed by the little bird herself to empty himself in the depths of her belly was so alluring that there was no fucking way in all the buggering Seven Kingdoms that he wouldn’t do it at once. His bloody exploits would be ridiculously short tonight but no less delectably overwhelming.

 

Grinding his hips against hers at a frenetic rhythm, Sandor finally lost it, his manhood throbbing almost painfully for an instant before his whole bloody exploded in ecstasy so strong, he was made blind and deaf for a few heartbeats. Sansa’s insides were warm and welcoming and she held on to him tightly as he filled her with his seed.

 

“Gods, little bird,” he panted, shutting his eyes and shifting desperately over her.

 

“I love you, Sandor,” the little bird murmured, kissing his neck and hugging him tenderly.

 

Sandor sighed deeply. “Fuck, Sansa… you’re turning me into a buggering softy but I don’t give a damned shit… _I love you so bloody much too_ …”

 

Once he had regained some of his composure, the man rolled onto his side and sat up very briefly in order to retrieve the fur he had tossed away just a few minutes earlier. When that was done, he yanked the little bird against him and wrapped his arms around her. A minute later, he was snoring, already deeply asleep.

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to wait a little before posting this since the previous chapter has been up for just a few days – I swear it! - yet I’m a very feeble woman. Hope you’ll enjoy.

**Sandor**

The insides of the little house were dark when Sandor entered but after a few seconds, he began to distinguish the shapes that inhabited its walls. A hearth in its centre, a table by the window and on the cold dirt floor near the heat of the dying flames, the forms of two sleeping persons. Since the building had a second storey, it was easy to guess those were the servants. The septon would surely have his own private chamber with a real bed as demanded by his buggering _holy_ title, after all. 

 

 _Well, I guess I’d best wake the servants before the bloody sun has a chance to rise,_ Sandor mused nonchalantly while gazing down at them with bored, half-closed eyes. With the tip of his boot, he pushed against the shape of the nearest sleeper.

 

“Time to wake up,” he rasped while lazily shaking the person.

 

With a gasp, she sat up. “What...? What is it? Oh!” a young girl exclaimed at realising a stranger had invaded the house. Judging by her voice and the shape of her body, she was perhaps about Sansa’s age.

 

In the same breath, the other person that slept by her side jerked up also. “What do you want from us?” she cried out, obviously terrified while circling her arms around the girl in a protective gesture. That one was a woman too but older. Her mother, most likely. “Don’t hurt us, please! I’m begging you!”

 

“Stop panicking, you wenches,” Sandor reassured them. “I’ve no bloody intention of-”

 

“Who are you that bothers us poor people at the hour of the wolf?” a man’s voice cut him off, coming from the ladder that served as stairs. That one was the septon, Sandor surmised.

 

Although he knew none of them presented any danger to him, Sandor unsheathed his sword just to be sure he met no resistance, its metallic hiss resounding through the small dwelling. He peered at the septon and saw that he stood at the bottom of the ladder in his long under-tunic. Surprisingly, his vulnerable state notwithstanding, the man seemed more cross than scared. He was apparently ready to stand his ground and that instantly drew Sandor’s grudging respect.    

 

“As I told your women, I don’t mean you any harm. I’m here simply because I need you to celebrate a union,” he explained, each of his words spoken slowly to make certain he was well understood. “You’re the septon, aren’t you?”

 

I am,” the man answered sternly. Sighing, he walked to the table, seized a long candle and lit its end in the hearth’s small fire before setting it in a candelabra. Then, he turned his stare on Sandor and narrowed suspicious eyes at him, his neck craned. He was a small man, no taller than Sansa. “This is no hour for a wedding. You cannot truly be serious about this?” he half-demanded, half-stated, his brow creasing with a deep frown.

 

Sandor snorted. “I wouldn’t have woken up so damned early and gotten here to ask you if I didn’t want it _right fucking now_ , don’t you think?” he retorted, his tone mocking.

 

At that, the septon’s face wrinkled as if he had tasted something foul. “Of course,” he replied without even attempting to hide his annoyance. Lowering his stare on his servants, he strode in their direction. “Did he harm you?”

 

Both women shook their head from their place on the floor, still clutching at each other. “We’re fine, Septon Simeon. He didn’t touch us,” the older one insisted.

 

A spark of relief passed through the septon’s eyes but when he raised his gaze to Sandor again, it was cold and severe. “Since you give us no choice, I’ll celebrate your wedding as you ask. Yet you need to give me time to change into my holy robe,” he expressed dryly.

 

“Go ahead, septon. I can wait a few minutes but don’t you take longer than necessary. I’ll be watching those _ladies_ here while you’re gone just to make sure,” Sandor warned the man, nodding at their forms on the ground.

 

“You don’t need to doubt me. I’ll be quick,” the septon retorted sharply while promptly going up the ladder.

 

Once the man was gone from his view, Sandor leaned his back against the wall, his sword still in hand with the point of its blade down against the dirt floor. Distractedly, he let his stare travel across the room, his mouth twitching when it fell on the two women and he saw how they hugged each other, shivering like leaves.

 

“Stop trembling!” he snapped at them. “I’ve no intention of either killing or raping you. I’m only here to marry my woman, didn’t you fucking hear?”

 

“We… we did, ser,” the older woman stammered. “As long as you don’t hurt my daughter, I’m-”

 

“Seven Hells, are you bloody deaf? I don’t care about your damned daughter, I just told you!” Sandor repeated with exasperation. Were these bloody females stupid or what? “I’ve my own woman: I’m here to _marry her,_ by the Stranger!” he almost yelled, taking a step toward them.

 

His words of explanation were apparently totally useless, for the servants tensed even more. _What a fucking duo of idiots!_ Sandor thought with contempt, shaking his head in disbelief and rolling his eyes.

 

Breathing in deeply to calm himself, the man looked away very briefly but then, an idea struck him and he returned his attention on the women. “You might want to do as your master and dress while you still have time, you know. We’ll need witnesses for the ceremony to be legal. You’ll do well enough, won’t you?”

 

Too frightened to refuse, both wenches nodded frantically.

 

“Good,” Sandor uttered unenthusiastically. “Go ahead, I won’t look, don’t you fucking worry.”

 

Without delay, the servants stood up and headed to a large chest in the corner of the room. They fumbled through its contents for a moment before swiftly starting to cover their nightshifts with what were probably old roughspun dresses.

 

To give them some measure of privacy, Sandor averted his stare and looked out the window, noticing with satisfaction that it was still pitch dark outside. Yet, while he didn’t peek at them, he neither lost sight of the wenches out the corner of his eye nor loosened the hold he had on his sword’s hilt. Staying vigilant didn’t cost much and was always worth the trouble. A few minutes later, the women were all set and the septon descended the ladder.

 

“I’m ready,” the latter announced while grasping the lighted candelabra and handing it to the older woman. By the expression he bore and heaviness of his movements, it was easy to guess the prospect of officiating a wedding just now didn’t enchant him in the least.

 

“Perfect then. All of you: _outside_!” Sandor ordered flatly, opening the door and showing them the way with the point of his sword

 

They all did as he ordered, Sandor following in their path shortly.

 

Once they were in the front yard, the septon gazed around him. “And where’s the _lucky_ lady I’ll be joining you with tonight?” he asked with a strong measure of sarcasm.

 

Sandor wasn’t offended by the man’s tone and even smirked at hearing his words. “She’s just here,” he replied, striding toward Stranger’s dark shape, hidden under the shadow of a tall tree nearby about ten yards from them.

 

Astride the stallion’s back, Sansa was quietly waiting for him, a wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders to replace the cloak she was lacking. Her posture and round, shiny eyes made it clear she was nervous but when she saw Sandor, she smiled sweetly at him.

 

“Did it work, Sandor?” she inquired in a murmur, hope and fear mingling in her voice.

 

“It did, don’t you worry, little bird,” Sandor assured her, a wolfish grin pulling at his lips as he witnessed her face light up.

 

“Oh, Sandor!” the girl cried happily. “You really are invincible! I’m so lucky to be marrying you!”

 

Sandor snorted a short, dry laugh. He still wasn’t used to such a beautiful girl swooning over his every deed. Chances were he would never be.

 

Watching the septon and his two servants, the man sheathed his sword and helped Sansa down off the horse. The little bird was beaming as they walked away from Stranger and Sandor kept his hand on the small of her back, stroking her softly over her blanket.

 

When they got near the other group, Sansa smiled kindly at the septon. “Nice meeting you,” she chirped, curtsying gracefully. “I’m so grateful you agreed to celebrate our wedding despite the hour and no prior notice.”

 

The septon wordlessly looked Sansa up and down, his bewilderment obvious at meeting such an unmistakably well-bred young lady instead of the tavern wench he had probably expected. “Hmm… you are… welcome, my lady,” he replied while examining her with the same mistrust one would an exquisite looking flower with petals that were known to be lethal.

 

Then he glanced up at Sandor and flinched at noticing his scars for the first time. While the dimness of the house had bathed his features in shadows, the moonlight was certainly not as _flattering_ and acted as a bloody lantern. If he hadn’t guessed it before, the septon was sure to know who he was dealing with now.

 

To Sandor’s mild relief, the holy man chose to stay silent and didn’t utter any comment. Scowling with blatant displeasure, he waved a hand to tell everyone to follow him to the sept. The small building was only a few yards from the domicile and the two female servants began opening its heavy wooden door without the septon having to say a word.

 

Although the place was not meant to celebrate anything more than poxy peasants’ weddings and funerals, it was quite ornate, Sandor noticed once they had entered. The poor inhabitants of the region had been spending their gold on this sept for quite a few generations and it showed. The man snorted. _Wasted gold,_ he thought while inspecting his surroundings.

 

The septon’s servants were busy lighting a few candles while their master fetched his holy books and papers. The man opened a big volume - The Seven Pointed-Star – and settled it on the central altar. Then, he installed another much thinner book by its side. That one would serve to write down their wedding contract, Sandor deduced.

 

“This is so exciting, Sandor!” Sansa whispered while hugging his arm, her pretty face turned upward to look at him. She was shivering in anticipation and elation both. “Can you believe we’re truly about to wed?”

 

“We are, little bird,” the man agreed, petting her hair with his free hand.

 

“Approach, my children,” the septon urged them without raising his gaze from his books.

 

Sansa untangled her arms from Sandor’s and they both walked side by side to the central altar.

 

“Your names and titles?” the septon asked once they were in front of him.

 

Sandor started first. “Sandor of House Clegane. No title.”

 

At hearing his name, the septon winced slightly but he wrote it down without reacting further or even glancing at him. As for the two servants, they jumped and gasped from the corner of the sept where they were hiding, still Sandor paid them no heed.

 

“And yours, my lady?” the septon demanded of the little bird.

 

“Lady Sansa of House Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, Warden of the North and Hand of the Realm,” she recited dutifully.

 

At that, the septon’s eyes grew wide and finally left his book to dart to the little bird. The servants gasped even louder than they had before and Sandor snorted at seeing everyone’s reactions.

 

While his surprise was undeniable, the septon shortly pulled himself together and regained his severe demeanour. Bracing his back, he met Sandor’s stare with his. “Ser Sandor,” he began brazenly. “May I have a private word with your betrothed?”

 

Although he was irritated at being called a knight and seeing how he was clearly being taken for an abductor, Sandor figured not making a scene was perhaps preferable. “Go ahead,” he grunted, mouth twitching.

 

“Follow me, my child,” the septon bade Sansa before leading her to the sept’s corner.

 

Sandor turned aside to give the illusion he didn’t mind any of this and wasn’t listening yet he pricked up his ears and eavesdropped on their discussion as much as he could. While he knew Sansa wanted this wedding as much as he did, a part of him still dreaded she might suddenly change her mind.

 

The septon and the little bird hadn’t gone very far and thus Sandor heard most of their exchange, although not all. What he understood of it was that the holy man didn’t believe Sansa truly wished to marry him and that he wouldn’t agree to officiate a forced union. The little bird immediately swore with all the enthusiasm she could muster that to wed today was her decision also and that living the rest of her life with Sandor was her only true desire. Then responding to the septon’s probing, she admitted with reluctance that her lord father didn’t approve of the match, yet she added that their love was true and strong and that she was convinced the gods themselves had planned it. If the septon didn’t agree to celebrate their wedding today, she and Sandor would continue their search and sooner or later, they’d find another one who would comply. In the meantime though, that they would consummate their love despite their union not having been made official in the eyes of the gods would become increasingly hard to avoid. They were so in love, after all, and had no chaperon to protect them from themselves. Sandor grinned at that. He was impressed at how bold the timid girl he had first known was becoming. To make such a proposition to a holy man was no small feat for someone as proper as Sansa.

 

While he didn’t look pleased, her plea had apparently succeeded in convincing the septon, for once they had both taken their original positions around the central altar, he wrote the little bird’s name and titles down in his book.

 

“I don’t approve of your union – I confess it – but I won’t deny its legitimacy either. You both want it and that’s all our holy books require,” he explained afterwards while gazing at them like a defeated but no less condemnatory father would his disobedient children.

 

“Good,” Sandor simply added as detachedly as he could while looking away.

 

Regardless of how careless he seemed, in truth the man was relieved. While he knew unsheathing his sword and pressing its blade to one of the servants’ throats would have reversed a negative decision from the septon easily enough, Sandor was nevertheless conscious that the little bird would have disliked such show of violence on her wedding day. It was much more preferable and simple that the septon accepted it himself.

 

Oblivious to his reflections, Sansa was grinning and squeaking in excitement. “Oh, Sandor! I’m so happy!” she was breathing, beautiful in her joy.

 

The septon overheard her and his lips twisted into a tense smile. That such a breathtaking and highborn maiden would genuinely long for such a horrible fate as to become the Hound’s wife was beyond him and it showed. He cleared his voice. “I gather you’ll want Anna and Julia as your witnesses?”

 

“Of course,” Sansa answered cheerfully. “You don’t mind?” she asked the two wenches, gazing their way with those bright, innocent blue eyes of hers.

 

“Oh no, m’lady!” the mother hurriedly replied, a stiff smile on her lips. Her daughter was nodding a little too eagerly by her side.

 

Sansa was blind to their discomfort. “Thank you so very much!” she exclaimed, bringing both her hands to her heart. “You don’t know how much this means to us!”

 

The septon discreetly shook his head at that. “You may approach,” he commanded his servants.

 

They did and thus, he began reading the holy texts that preceded any wedding ceremony in the same monotone every septon used at such instances.

 

Sandor had assisted at many marriages in his life, all of which had been terribly boring to him and his own was no different. As he had always done in the past though, he kept silent as he waited for the torture to be over. Yet this time, he knew that once all that fucking bullshit was done, he’d be forever united to Sansa and therefore, he listened with more patience than he ever had before. The girl herself seemed so elated. She apparently savoured every bloody passage of the tiresome texts and even moved her lips in unison with the septon’s words from time to time. Her blissful mindset was somehow contagious even to Sandor and he felt his mouth twitch into a smile anytime he glanced her way.

 

When the time for the exchange of the cloaks finally arrived, Sandor strolled behind the little bird and grasped the blanket that served her as cloak. He removed it and walked to the nearest bench to lay it there before striding behind the girl again. Then once that was done, he undid the clasp of his own cloak and draped it over her shoulders. It was so long on her that it bunched around her feet on the ground.

 

That done, the septon indicated it was time for them to recite their vows.

 

“With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife,” Sandor mumbled in a deep rasp, utterly conscious these were the first, and likely last vows he’d ever speak in his life.

 

“With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband,” Sansa added in a voice filled with emotion. Her dainty face was as luminous as the sun, her grin large and so bloody genuine… the sight sent Sandor’s heart racing as madly as a wild horse.

 

Sliding both his hands over her shoulders, the man bowed and brought his lips to his wife’s while she got on her tiptoes and shut her eyes. They kissed as decently as was expected in a holy ceremony, nevertheless they didn’t stop nearly as quickly as was custom and only ceased after the septon coughed to grasp their attention.

 

“You are now officially husband and wife,” the holy man declared gruffly.

 

At that, Sansa all but jumped in ecstasy and Sandor settled a hand over the junction of her neck and back, massaging it gently as he grinned down at her.

 

“As I told you prior to the ceremony, I don’t believe your union to be wise,” the septon began. “However, as I saw it was both your choice and desire, I complied and conducted the wedding. Thus from now on, I’ll vouch for it and stand by its legitimacy.”

 

“Oh, thank you so much!” the little bird exclaimed, lifting both her delicate hands to her mouth.

 

The Septon gestured for her to keep quiet. “I won’t see any of the rites I celebrate be negated. I may operate a small sept but the Seven-Pointed Star teaches us all septs - no matter their size - hold the same power in the faith. I believe in that precept and am ready to fight if anyone contradicts its veracity.”

 

Sandor smirked at hearing the septon’s speech. Never in a million years could he have predicted religious integrity would one day serve him.

 

“Thank you so very much!” the little bird exclaimed but then, she blushed and added timidly, “I’m ashamed not to have asked before, yet could I please know the name of the holy man that joined me to my lord husband?”

 

The septon smiled wearily and bowed. “Of course, Lady Sansa. I’m Septon Simeon.”

 

“I’m infinitely grateful to you, Septon Simeon. We both are.”

 

“Of course,” the septon spat sharply, glancing sceptically at Sandor. “You are now husband and wife in truth but I still need to fill out your copy of the contract. You also need to sign my book.”

 

“Whatever you want, septon,” Sandor acceded.

 

Both he and Sansa followed the man and signed their names in his book. Afterwards, the two servant women traced large Xs under their respective names and the little bird and he walked to a bench. They sat there for a few minutes, holding onto each other but before long, Septon Simeon came to them with a piece of parchment.

 

“In this you have proof of your sacred union. Keep it always.”

 

“Don’t you worry about that, septon,” Sandor muttered, immediately pulling the paper from the man’s hands. “We’re going now, Sansa,” he told the girl, standing up and looking down at her.

 

She nodded and stood, however before taking a step, she gazed at the septon and his servants. “You don’t know how grateful I am. I’ll never forget the help you lent us.”

 

 _What a sweet girl she is,_ Sandor mused with both fondness and amusement. While he realised the septon had only done his duty and his servants had listened to their master as they ought to, the man did realise he owed these people some sort of recognition. With that in mind, Sandor opened his pouch and fished out a gold dragon.

 

“Here, for your trouble,” he let out, flipping the precious coin in the septon’s direction.

 

After spinning a few times in the air, the gold dragon fell onto the cold ground and although he was too proud to run to it, Sandor knew the holy man would pick it up later on. Or more likely, his servants would. The latter were already gazing hungrily at its shiny glow.

 

“Let’s go, Sansa,” Sandor told the little bird while snaking an arm around her shoulders and leading her outside.

 

She nodded and they were on their way a moment after.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone,  
> I’m very sorry if this chapter has been a bit long coming. It’s my longest for this story yet so perhaps you’ll forgive me for the wait. ;) I hope you’ll enjoy it and if you do, please let me know!

**Eddard**

“Lord Stark!” Jory was exclaiming from the front of their small column. “We’re getting near a hamlet.”

 

“Good, it’s about time. We’ll ask here too,” Eddard replied, hurrying his mount forward.

 

After hours of riding through the forest without coming across even a single isolated dwelling, the news that they would at last meet people was quite a relief to Ned. Not even a day had passed since the Hound and Sansa had fled the Red Keep but every hour had been painfully long to him.

 

The moment Eddard had heard his daughter had been sighted yesterday, he and his men had rushed to the Mud Gate. Once out of the city walls, getting information about the direction she and the Hound had taken hadn’t been very hard. People easily remembered a man such as Sandor Clegane, especially one astride an impressive war stallion and sharing his saddle with a pretty young lady garbed in expensive silk. Following in their path would thus have been an easy task if not for the sun, which had been about to set the moment they were out of King’s Landing. Indeed, without the sunlight they needed to work, the peasants Ned and his men depended so much on to get directions had rapidly disappeared from the side of the road and to continue further, they had had no choice but to enter each inn they saw to question the patrons they found drinking inside. All these stops hadn’t made for an efficient pace, however the situation became even more difficult as night progressed and the inns’ common rooms grew empty. Although it was frustrating, in these conditions their group had had no choice but to halt their search a little before midnight and rest until daybreak when people would start sprouting along the road again.

 

Dawn was long gone by now and the sun was rapidly reaching its peak. For interminable hours, Eddard and his men had travelled on the same minor road and seen nothing but trees. While a group of woodchoppers had assured them not long after they had broken camp that a large scarred _knight_ and a pretty young lady with red hair had passed by their post some time before the previous dusk, Ned had begun to doubt the truth of their words as morning turned to noon. It had been nerve-racking to follow such a backwoods lane for so long without meeting a soul to confirm they were truly on the right track. They depended so much on the accounts of the people they met in their hunt, after all.

 

Now that they were finally coming across a settlement of some sort, hope that they would receive fresher information was once more rising in Ned. As he approached the other men of his party, his heart began beating faster in anticipation at realising they had arrived at a small sept. In front of the building, three persons - probably alerted by the noise - were already waiting.

 

“You must be the septon,” Eddard observed, his gaze settling on the skinny and small but proud looking middle-aged man that stood between what appeared to be his servants.

 

Nodding, the man kneeled and bowed. “And you must be Lord Stark,” he answered gravely. 

 

Wincing, Ned acquiesced. That the septon had so easily guessed who he was augured nothing good.

 

And indeed he was right, for the latter added: “I have bad news for you, my lord.”

 

**Sansa**

They had ridden for a long time when they finally reached the inn where they would spend their first official night together as husband and wife. It was a pretty little half-timbered building with an old wooden shingle roof and many flowers and plants growing all around. The village it was situated in was just as charming and the biggest they had seen since they had left King’s Landing.

 

“So what do you say, little bird?” Sandor muttered softly after they had silently considered the inn for a short instant, one of his large hands massaging her upper arm.

 

“Oh it’s perfect - I love it! - but I wonder… isn’t it early to stop?” Sansa heard herself point out. “The sun has only just gotten to its highest a couple of hours ago, after all. I thought you wanted to put as much land behind us as you could.”

 

Grunting, Sandor removed his hand from her. “We’ve been up since before dawn and riding for almost as long,” he stated in a dry voice that contrasted unpleasantly with the warm tone he had used but a moment before. “I’d have thought you would prefer to rest but if you really want to continue, we’ll just get food here and keep on going afterwards.” Jumping out of the saddle, the Hound put his back to Sansa and began leading Stranger toward the inn.

 

“I was just wondering, Sandor!” the girl hurriedly assured him, her eyes grown wide with worry. “If you say it’s all right, I believe you, of course! I am indeed tired of riding.” For a purpose that evaded her, Sansa had wished to be the voice of reason and remind him of his previous resolution but the truth was this change of plan had pleased her. She did like the prospect of a warm meal and a nice, soft bed and the inn was so lovely besides! They _had_ to spend their first night there! The prospect that the Hound might reconsider his decision once more all for her filled her with guilt and regret.

 

For a couple of seconds, Sandor kept walking and didn’t reply but then, he halted and turned to look at her again, his mouth twisted in a crooked grin and eyes narrowed mischievously. “I had guessed as much,” he stated, his chest shaking with a silent snigger.

 

Sansa frowned at seeing he had led her on and was mocking her for having risen to his bait. A pout on her lips, she lifted her chin and averted her gaze from him yet just as she did, the Hound laid a hand on her thigh and began stroking it.

 

“Come on now, don’t sulk - that was just a little jape. There’s no bloody reason to lose your pretty smile: it’s still our wedding day and we’ll get the nicest room this inn has to offer. Isn’t that what you told me you wanted? Hmm?” he asked in a low, husky voice, his eyes half-hooded and sparkling in a mix of fondness and hunger.

 

There was no way Sansa could stay annoyed with him when he talked and looked at her like that. “Well, yes, of course,” she replied bashfully, her cheeks colouring as she remembered the context in which she had made that demand.

 

It had happened not so long ago – around midday perhaps – as they progressed along an isolated lane. All through the morning, the Hound had often caressed her but his hands had always been affectionate and gentle and the gestures had never hidden any lewd intentions. Gradually though, things had changed and his touch had become more and more insistent until he was straight out fondling her curves. Even though the road had been deserted at the time, his actions had made Sansa uncomfortable, for they had been in the open and unlike yesterday night when they had made love in the woods, there had been no darkness to offer the illusion of intimacy. At first, the girl had only tensed and tried to keep her distance despite her position in the saddle making the operation nearly impossible. Perhaps naively, she had hoped Sandor would notice her unease and leave her alone, yet her wish hadn’t been granted.

 

“What are you doing?” she had asked, giggling nervously after he had gone a step further and grabbed one of her breasts. The sudden gesture had tickled her and she had wriggled to chase his hand away.

 

“Sansa, don’t be a prude. You’re my wife now,” Sandor had rasped in her ear, pressing his hardened member against her back and keeping her in place with a hand on her stomach.

 

The girl hadn’t noticed he was aroused before and she felt her face grow blazing red at sensing the now familiar stiffness behind her. “I’m not being a prude!” she had countered, vainly struggling in his hold. “I wouldn’t mind that you touched me if we weren’t in the middle of the road like this.”

 

“I could take you in the woods then,” the Hound had proposed, slowing his horse and kissing her behind the ear.

 

“No, Sandor! _Please_!” Sansa had immediately cried, jerking her head away and twisting in the saddle to gaze reproachfully at him. “I don’t want our first official time to be like this! Please, let’s do it in a real bed. _You promised!_ ”

 

A scowl on his face, Sandor had growled in annoyance though he had removed his hand from her belly and given her the space she craved. “All right then,” he had spat flatly. “We’ll wait.”

 

Notwithstanding his lack of enthusiasm, Sansa had been pleased to win this small battle. They were to share a life from now on after all and her choices needed to be respected.

 

And so here they were now, a couple of hours later, in front of the inn that would see their first marital night. Sansa smiled to herself: it was clear the Hound’s motives for stopping so early were not entirely selfless. He’d have probably been happy to continue until dusk if she had agreed to see to his need in the forest. Yet while Sansa was well aware they had not followed the logical order of things to begin with, she intended to lead a blameless existence as Sandor’s wife from now on and thus she would settle for naught less than a proper bedding.

 

“Let’s go, Sansa,” Sandor urged her, circling both his hands around her waist and helping her down.

 

 _And that’s exactly what I’ll get. Sandor couldn’t have refused me something so important. He loves me too much,_ Sansa mused dreamily. Smiling at her new husband, the girl hooked her thin arms around his thick one and they began walking side by side towards the inn’s door, her head leaning against his solid bicep.

 

 

****

 

The room they had chosen was really nice, in a rustic kind of way. Its walls were made of big blocks of wood and whitewashed stone and there was a large fireplace in which lively flames danced, a simple but solid table by the window and even a comfy looking featherbed. Sansa had been so excited when she first saw it! _This is perfect,_ she mused joyfully as she and Sandor re-entered what would become their little love-nest for the space of a night.

 

The chamber had not been ready when they arrived and so they had used the spare time during its preparation to eat a bite in the common room. A stew had already been simmering in a large pot over the hearth fire and while Sansa slowly ingested a bowl of it, her husband had devoured three. It had been naught but a simple peasant meal but Sandor had told her that for small folk, it was quality food for it was filled with meat and expensive vegetables and indeed, Sansa had had to admit it was really tasty. Apparently, the region was rich in resources for even the commoners that inhabited it seemed pretty wealthy.

 

Once their hunger had been satisfied, Sansa had announced she wished to bathe. It was legitimate, she thought. After all, the Hound had told her yesterday that he intended to… _worship_ her body. The idea made her blush even while she wasn’t entirely certain of everything it might imply. Still, in spite of her ignorance, she had an inkling being pink as a newborn was preferable. Besides, it was well known a maiden needed to enter her nuptial bed clean and fresh for her new husband.

 

Sandor didn’t argue. “Anything you want,” he had answered before waving at the innkeeper to inform him of her request.

 

Without delay, a large wooden bathtub had been brought to their rented chamber and filled with warm water. Sansa was now looking at it longingly, pinning her long braid in a bun on the top of her head so that she wouldn’t wet her hair. Sandor was settling Stranger’s saddle on the table and once that was done, he walked to the door and pushed the bolt closed.

 

“Is all to your liking, _my lady_?” he inquired while unbuckling his light armour.

 

“Oh, it’s perfect, Sandor! You don’t know how happy I am right now,” Sansa replied truthfully, staring at the steaming water she would very soon slide into.

 

Without any more consideration, she unlaced her gown and removed it. Only once she was down to her shift did she realise Sandor’s hungry eyes were on her. It was quite intimidating, no matter that he had already seen her naked.

 

“Don’t look!” she squeaked, folding her arms before her and tilting her blushing face down.

 

The Hound was lazily leaning against the wall not far from the bed with a smug air about him. He was down to his breeches and tunic. “Why shouldn’t I? You’re my wife now! I’ve every bloody right to look at you as much as I want.”

 

“But I’m going to clean up, Sandor! It won’t be elegant!” the girl complained, totally embarrassed at the notion that he might want to follow her every movement as if she was putting on a show for the sole purpose of his entertainment.

 

“You’re being absurd, little bird. You wouldn’t know how not to be graceful if you tried,” the man laughed as he sat in the nearest chair. Shaking his head, he bowed and started unlacing his boots.

 

Using the opportunity his distraction offered, Sansa lifted her shift over her head and quickly rid herself of her underclothes. Once that was done, she all but jumped in the warmth of the bath, droplets splashing all around her.

 

Surprised by the haste of her actions, Sandor jerked his head up to lay wide, puzzled eyes on her. When he saw Sansa was immersed in the bathtub, its contents rippling around her, he barked with laughter. “Seven hells, girl, but you’re being bull-headed here. I don’t understand why you should be so damned shy. I’ve already seen you with no clothes on - you didn’t forget, did you?” he gently chided her, kicking his boots off.

 

While she was slightly embarrassed by her timidity, Sansa was not about to give in either. “I know but this is our first _real_ night, Sandor!” she retorted. “If our wedding had been done in the usual way, I’d be bathing with my maids and you wouldn’t even be here to witness it.”

 

“That’s true,” the Hound admitted, a wolfish grin pulling at his lips, while standing up and strolling toward her. “And I wouldn’t have fucked you twice already either. Come one, little bird. Don’t be so buggering childish and give way to your rightful husband,” he pressed her, his demeanour somehow threatening in an exciting manner.

 

He was getting really near and Sansa could see his gaze was travelling down her body, lingering on the parts that weren’t submerged - her breasts most of all. She could tell he wanted to touch them and would very soon squat to put his thoughts into action. At the awareness, a panic similar to that which often seized her when she played monsters-and-maidens with her bothers and sister as a child rose in her core. Her heart racing, Sansa covered her chest with one arm and threw water on him to chase him away with the other. “No! Please, Sandor! Keep your hands for yourself, _I’m bathing_!” she cried.

 

In a bid not to be reached, the Hound took an abrupt step back but some drops fell on his breeches and the bottom of his tunic anyway. He was obviously taken aback and irked by the gesture while amused at the same time. “All right then, you win. I won’t touch you. _For now_ ,” he promised, heading towards the bed. When he got just in front, he turned to face Sansa again – his eyes narrowed and menacing. “But you won’t stop me from looking, little bird. From where you are, I don’t see how the fuck you could anyhow.” He smiled complacently at that.

 

Her legs pulled up to her chest, Sansa was staring down at where her hands lay on her knees. As much as she loved him, her husband could really be awful sometimes. A frown on her brow, she gazed his way reprovingly yet just as she did, the Hound pulled his tunic over his head and her breath instantly caught in her throat at the sight that awaited her. She had never gotten the chance to really admire him throughout their previous bouts of intercourse and to behold his muscular torso in the afternoon light was quite impressive. _I’m getting distracted,_ the girl reflected after she had let her stare wander over his tight, chiselled muscles for a few seconds. Thankfully, busy as he was unlacing his breeches, Sandor didn’t notice her scrutiny and she thus returned her attention to her task unobserved.

 

One side of the bathtub was a little larger and its surface served to keep at hand whatever might be required while bathing. A bar of soap and a small cloth had been left there by the inn’s maids and Sansa seized both, rubbing them together until the fabric was full of lather. Then, she slipped it along her arms in small circular movements until each were covered with froth. Afterwards, she did the same with her neck and chest but once she got to her breasts, she heard a sound coming from the bed.

 

“Mmm,” Sandor was grunting softly, his eyes eating her up. Stark naked, he was lying on the mattress with his upper body propped over a bunch of pillows piled against the head of the bed, his member standing straight and stiff between them.

 

At seeing him like that, Sansa’s mouth gaped open and she froze.

 

“Don’t stop for me, Sansa. Those pert teats of yours deserve to be clean too, after all,” the Hound rasped languorously, his hand going up and down the length of his manhood in a slow but firm-looking stroke.

 

Despite their previous encounters, Sansa was naught but a novice where male-female intimacy was concerned and to witness him do something so obscene was mortifying to her. “Sandor!” she gasped meekly, looking away and feeling her whole body flush red.

 

“Oh come on now. What by the Stranger did you expect I’d do while I waited for you to be done?” he justified in a tone that made it sound as if _she_ was the one being unreasonable. “It’s not easy for a man so eager to perform his conjugal duty to bide his time, you know.”

 

Sansa wrinkled her nose and smiled despite herself. Did he truly hope she would pity him?

 

Taking her reaction for encouragement, the Hound moved his fist around himself a little faster and shut his eyes, a seemingly agreeable shiver going down his muscled build. While the notion of what he was so unashamedly doing still made her ill-at-ease, Sansa’s centre was starting to ache in the queer but pleasant manner she experienced anytime she and Sandor became intimate.

 

Biting at her lower lip, she returned her attention to her body and resumed soaping her breasts. She could hear the Hound grunting with approval as she did and out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the movement of his hand as it slid powerfully but unhurriedly along his length. However, in spite of how her husband’s unruly ways could be distracting, Sansa was adamant about doing a good job and she ignored him as best she could and kept on going. Pointing first one foot out the side of the bathtub and then another, she wiped the cloth along her lithe legs.

 

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Sansa. A true goddess,” Sandor murmured, his eyes gleaming with lust.

 

Such complimentary words did naught but bring a smile to Sansa’s lips, no matter how much the position the Hound was in made it hard for her to look straight at him. Still against her better judgement, the knowledge that she was the sole cause of his present state was prompting her stomach to flutter with pride and excitement just as the throbbing in her lower belly grew in strength.

 

Once her legs, arms and breasts were rinsed, Sansa washed her face and once more scoured her cloth against the bar of soap. Only her middle remained to be cleaned, that and her … _private parts_. It was easy to predict the sort of response that would trigger from her dissolute new husband and Sansa wasn’t so sure she wished to know what other coarse things he would find to say.

 

In hope that by being efficient she might outrun his sharp tongue, she got on her knees and brushed the lather-filled cloth over her stomach and upper thighs as hastily as she could. Her efforts were in vain though.

 

“Well now, look at those delicious white thighs,” Sandor started in a deep, throaty voice. “Can’t wait to spread them wide and bury myself in that sweet red-haired cunt. Fuck, I want it so damned badly, I can almost taste it.” His large hand tugging down at his shaft, he bucked his hips as if he wished to show Sansa how he would proceed.

 

At hearing his predictably crude comment, a wave of embarrassment flew over Sansa and she turned her back to him before bringing the cloth between her legs to wash herself _there_ out of his view.

 

Sandor didn’t seem to mind. “Mmm, you know I had never seen your nice little arse so well before? Gods, it’s bloody perfect, girl. If you were nearer, I’d take a bite out of one of those round cheeks of yours,” he said, his tone low and gravelly.

 

A shiver going down her spine, Sansa turned once more, swiftly swiped the cloth over her behind and got in the water to rinse all the lather off. “I’m done now,” she announced, her face and chest aflame as she got out and wrapped herself up in the large, dry towel that had been waiting on a chair nearby.

 

“It’s about time,” Sandor replied, a smirk curving his lips as he sat up on the edge of the bed.

 

Paying him no heed, Sansa dried her upper body first and then bowed to sponge off the droplets that covered her legs. She was almost done when a pair of large hands circled her hips from behind and the end of a very hard manhood pointed against her lower back.

 

“No, Sandor! You’ll dirty me!” Sansa cried, fleeing from his clutches before he had time to hold her too tightly. Turning to face him once she was far enough, she put the towel around her shoulders to cover her nudity. “You need to wash first too!”

 

The Hound’s face twisted into a surprised scowl. “I’m not dirty, Sansa. I cleaned just a few days ago,” he objected very logically.

 

Sansa’s nostrils stirred with scepticism. “Perhaps but I won’t let you touch me until you’ve been in the bath also. Please, it’ll take you just a few minutes!”

 

The burnt corner of his mouth twitching, the Hound tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes at her. “ _Just a few minutes,_ ”he repeated disbelievingly.“Come on now, Sansa. Don’t you think I’ve been patient enough already?” Taking a stride toward her, he lifted a hand with the clear intention of grabbing her by the arm.

 

Sansa’s eyes became round with alarm. “No!” she exclaimed, stepping back and slapping his raised arm with the towel. “Stay away! I won’t let you ruin my work!”

 

Startled by her uncharacteristic boldness, Sandor was rooted in place just long enough for Sansa to run to the bed and jump onto the mattress. Even she was quite astounded by her insistence and audaciousness. She wasn’t used to acting as wildly as Arya.

 

His fists closing and opening by his side, the Hound stayed immobile for an instant, frustration oozing from him. “Damned woman!” he cursed after a few heartbeats, shaking his head and heading for the bathtub.

 

Although she was still unused to his gruffness and short temper, Sansa was satisfied to have won. She removed the pins from her hair and undid her braid until her long tendrils were falling freely around her shoulders and tossed the towel to the floor before sliding under the blankets to warm herself. The water wasn’t steaming anymore as Sandor entered the bathtub and Sansa was glad to have gone in first. With fast and brusque movements, the man was soaping himself, foam forming in the coarse, dark hair of his chest and arms. It was easy to tell he wanted naught more than to be done as quickly as possible. Every now and then, he glared in Sansa’s direction and whenever he did, the girl automatically pulled the blanket over her face for fear that glimpsing her giggles might worsen his annoyance.

 

“Here you go, girl. I’m clean and shiny as new. Couldn’t be more so,” he announced dryly after a couple of minutes. With that, he rose to his feet, soapy water running down his dusky skin and flowing over his muscles in dozens of little rivulets.

 

Sansa glanced his way. Although his shaft wasn’t as stiff as it had been, it wasn’t soft either and she didn’t harbour a shadow of doubt it would shortly regain its former glory. His bearing nonchalant, Sandor strolled to the bed, picked up the now damp large towel Sansa had used and sponged off the worst of the drops that still rolled down his robust figure.

 

“I’ve been compliant so far, little bird,” he started, his tone deceptively calm. “But believe my bloody words: if you find another buggering excuse to push me away again, I won’t listen anymore. I’ll take you by force if I have to,” the Hound promised, a wicked, almost insane spark passing through his eyes as he bunched some of the blankets that covered Sansa in his fists and threw them away.

 

Yelping, she curled in on herself, the tickle in her loins revived at hearing his threat no matter how horrified she logically should have been at the prospect that he might execute it. The air of the room wasn’t cold, yet after having snuggled under the covers, the temperature difference was quite shocking to Sansa. She didn’t have time to shudder though, for Sandor installed himself by her side and pulled her to him and while his skin was still wet, it was warm and comforting. Nuzzling at her hair, he let his strong hands travel down her body, one of them resting on her mound for a short instant before sliding between her legs.

 

“Little bird, has torturing me turned you on? You’re soaked, you know that?” he remarked after his fingers had spread her lower lips and dipped into her.

 

“No!” Sansa replied, slightly affronted by his implication. “I really wanted you to be clean. I had no other reason to ask, I swear!”

 

“All right, I believe you. I know you don’t have a bloody ounce of nastiness in you,” the man acknowledged, not unkindly. Then, his eyes darkened and he added: “Still, Sansa, I hope you realise you cannot coerce a man to act against his will like you did and not suffer consequences afterwards.” Snorting, he bared his teeth in a roguish grin. “Being fresh and as sweet-smelling as a buggering flower is giving me ideas.”

 

Sansa looked at him with curiosity. What could he mean by that?

 

Taking a gentle bite at her neck, Sandor pushed his hardened member against the side of her thigh. “You feel that, Sansa? So hard and all for you. I’d like you to lick it… and I want to know how much of it you can fit in that proper mouth of yours.”

 

The demand caught Sansa totally off guard and her heart skipped a beat. Never had she heard of something like that before. “You want me to…?”

 

“You heard me right, judging by the colour of your face.” Chuckling, Sandor traced the line of her jaw with his knuckles, his stare wandering lustily over her face. “Come on, little bird. Do it for me. Don’t you want to make your husband happy?”

 

Sansa hesitated. He was asking for something she easily could guess true ladies certainly never did and to lower her head _down there_ and perform his request seemed somewhat debasing. On the other hand, he was her husband and as his wife, besides bearing his children, her duty was indeed to make him happy. Moreover, if truth be told, the more Sansa reflected upon it, the less she could see the harm in acting in an unladylike manner for Sandor’s enjoyment every now and then in the privacy of their conjugal bed. No one would ever know apart from the two of them and all that truly mattered in the end was the love they shared.

 

Her decision made, Sansa timidly lifted her gaze to meet his. “Of course I want to make you happy, Sandor. I’m just not sure how to… to ...”

 

The man smiled smugly at that. “That’s all right. I’ll very gladly instruct you.”

 

Rolling onto his back, he ran his fingers through Sansa’s hair before gently pushing her by the shoulder toward his erect member. A mad blush rose to her cheeks but the girl nevertheless sat up and fixed her eyes on the Hound’s groin as he took himself in hand and pulled the loose skin down. Although she had seen his manhood before, Sansa had never had such a good look. It was an impressive thing all right, standing proudly and imposingly before her.

 

“Go on, Sansa, have your taste.” Sandor’s back was propped up on the pillows, a position which allowed him to follow each of her movements.

 

The idea of doing such a thing while being watched so closely made Sansa uneasy yet she did as he asked. Bowing, she opened her month and very shyly let out only the point of her tongue, touching the silky skin of his shaft with its pink and moist flesh.

 

Sandor bit at his lower lip and nodded with approval. His positive reaction gave Sansa courage and she pushed her tongue out a little more to give a real lick this time - from the middle of his manhood to the beginning of its head. It tasted strange, sort of tangy, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

 

The Hound very briefly extended his limbs, similarly to the string of a bow about to be used. “See, little bird, it’s not so bad, is it?” he asked, his stare glowing with licentiousfascination.

 

Sansa shook her head and smiled coyly at him. It was indeed not so bad, she had to admit now that the ice was broken, and she ran her tongue along his erection again, starting once more at its centre but this time going all the way to its head. The flesh was sort of cushiony up there, Sansa noticed with interest.

 

“Yes, little bird… that’s good,” the Hound murmured, stretching his neck. “Now hold it in your little paw and suck it,” he urged, his voice sharp with desire.

 

The rhythm of her pulse increasing, Sansa delicately took his member from his hand, feeling the coarse hair that grew around it brush her delicate skin as her palm and fingers circled its base. Unlike him though, her fist was far too small to close around his width and her fingertips and thumb had a good gap between them. While Sansa wasn’t so sure of how she was supposed to proceed to fulfil his demand, she figured the most obvious answer was probably her best guess. With that in mind, she leaned over the Hound’s manhood, opened her mouth around its head and sucked at it just like she would some barley sugar.

 

Sandor groaned, his long body shifting. “Good, little bird… very good,” he hissed in a raw but soft voice. “Go deeper now. And you can hold it more firmly; you won’t hurt me, you know. On the bloody contrary.”

 

Obediently, Sansa immediately did as he bade her. Parting her lips wider to accommodate more of him, she closed them around his engorged shaft and sucked at it, his massive thighs tightening as she pulled out.

 

The man inhaled a deep, shivering breath. “Gods, Sansa, that’s perfect. I could almost believe you’ve done this before.” With his fingers, he pushed the long curls that had fallen over Sansa’s face behind her ear. “Keep going just like that but use your tongue also and move your hand along with your mouth,” he instructed her while gently petting her hair, his stare boring into her.

 

Smiling to herself, Sansa resumed her ministrations. She had always been a good girl and pleasing others was something she craved more than almost anything else. It was in her nature and she thrived on doing so, especially if she received praise for her work afterwards. That she had impressed the Hound with her effort was making the industrious student proud of herself. Anytime she needed to learn something new - with Septa Mordane, Maester Luwin or her music teachers – she had always applied herself and done her best to excel and _this_ was no different, no matter how unseemly it might appear when compared to her previous ventures. If she was to service her husband in that fashion, she’d do it readily and strive to become as skilful as possible.

 

Her determination rapidly paid off. Following Sandor’s guidance, Sansa tugged down at his member with her hand - engulfing even more of its length in her mouth and trailing her tongue along the skin – and she was rewarded by a growl of pleasure. Emboldened, she renewed the gesture while going even further, alternatively sucking as hard as she could and meticulously tracing each detail of his manhood with her tongue.

 

Her husband was panting when she paused to peer at him after a few minutes of such devoted care. “Seven Hells, girl, this is so good,” he uttered breathlessly while reaching to caress Sansa’s hair again. He looked weary and agitated at once, delighted and lost. “You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are with my cock in your mouth. If I’d been a weaker man, I’d have lost it the moment your lips closed around it.” Then, he sighed with something like resignation and to Sansa’s surprise, he sat up, grabbed her by the legs and swung her around. “Come over here, little bird. I’ll take care of you also.”

 

Although she was confused, Sansa didn’t resist and in an eye blink, they were both on their sides, facing each other upside down. Even before she had time to register what was happening, Sandor spread her legs and began kissing her folds, his calloused hands stroking the thighs that flanked his cheeks. He was basically performing a mirrored version of the favour she had just done for him, she realised with wonder. That was another detail no one had ever informed her about, that men could long to put their mouths _down there_. She did like it though, Sansa was quickly forced to admit – she loved it even. With his tongue, the Hound was caressing the exact spot from which the pressure that was building in her radiated from and the sensation it brought forth was simply amazing. It released some of her tension and transformed the queer ache she had been burdened with ever since Sandor had begun pleasuring himself into something completely intoxicating and addictive. Shutting her eyes, she arched her back and moaned, anything that wasn’t the bewitching warmth that pooled in her lower belly or the touch of his tongue and hands on her skin fading into nothingness.

 

“Little bird… no music’s more beautiful to me than hearing you sing like this and by the buggering Stranger _you taste good_ … still, don’t forget me. I need your mouth too,” Sandor reminded her, leaving her lady’s part just long enough to make her understand why he’d want her to resume.

 

Flustered, Sansa opened her eyes. As if she had just been brutally woken from a dream, her focus evaded her at first but when her gaze fell on the Hound’s manhood, the fog that had enveloped her abruptly vanished. She could have sworn it had grown even stiffer and at beholding how big and powerful it was, she got on her elbow to better admire it. That it was in that state all because of her was somehow gratifying to her and the prospect that it would end up between her legs sent shivers all over her body.

 

“Sansa…?” Sandor called a little impatiently, removing his mouth from her cleft once more.

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Sandor,” she apologised, instantly seizing his shaft and starting to move her fist up and down.

 

The man grunted in approval and carried on lapping obsessively at her folds, more particularly at the bundle of nerves hidden inside. Just as Sansa was about to take him in her mouth again, she took note of a small drop pearling at the head of his member. Her eyes shining with curiosity, she touched it with her forefinger and spread it. Then, she brushed the glittering skin with the tip of her tongue and at seeing the taste didn’t bother her, she slid his shaft between her lips as avidly as if she wished to swallow him whole. As if it was the most delicious hard candy she had ever put her teeth on and that she wanted to enjoy it to the very last mouth-watering drop, Sansa hungrily but patiently flipped her tongue around the tasty flesh. However, unlike the sweets of her childhood, she thankfully didn’t have to worry about the Hound’s manhood melting under her warm attention. It held the same unyielding space in her mouth and pulsed mightily with her every touch.

 

By the growing haste with which he was kissing and licking her, Sansa could tell Sandor was getting more and more inflamed. He was merciless with her nub and while she relished his fervour very much, it was increasingly hard for her to keep her concentration. Her work on him was not as efficient as she would have wished and the perfectionist couldn’t help but be frustrated at the awareness. Yet the blissful state in which she had been dragged was making her more indulgent with herself. That she keep on sucking and licking at him at all times didn’t seem so important anymore and she thus allowed herself to moan quietly when her own pleasure became too strong – her cries muffled by the bulky member in her mouth.

 

It was at one such moment that Sandor suddenly began using his fingers on her, one of them penetrating her exactly like a manhood would. While she loved it, all the different kinds of stimulation she was assailed with were getting dizzying to Sansa. She was losing sense of her own being to exist in a parallel world inhabited solely by diffuse sensations, where pain and pleasure mingled to create the most confusing ecstasy imaginable.

 

Still, in spite of her inadequacy, she persisted and sporadically sucked at Sandor’s shaft as ardently as if it was the sole thread that still tied her to reality. Her mouth and jaw were starting to ache from being almost constantly open and yet, Sansa was tenacious. Tightening the circle of her fingers around his erection, she was about to take more of him in her mouth when the Hound suddenly began rocking his pelvis exactly as he did when he took her, although with less strength. The movement took Sansa by surprise and she gagged when his manhood slid a little too deeply into her throat.

 

“You all right?” Sandor inquired at once, backing off until her mouth was empty.

 

“Yes,” Sansa mumbled, coughing just once to clear her throat.

 

“I’m sorry, little bird,” he chuckled quietly, his mouth pulling into a half-grin. “I’m getting too aroused. I think we’d best get to the real stuff before I explode in your mouth. You wouldn’t like that, I think, especially since you’ve requested that I always come in you.”

 

Turning onto his back, Sandor grabbed Sansa by the waist and drew her over him until she was straddling his middle. The void the absence of his tongue on her cleft had left in her rendered her anxious and squirmy and she instinctively pushed her lady’s part against him as she installed herself, realising as she did that she was sitting right on his erection. The juncture of her legs was slick with her own juice and it glided over his manhood as smoothly as butter, the stiff member twitching under her in response. As much from surprise as from delight, the girl’s eyes went wide at the sensation the friction induced and she tentatively repeated the motion in a ploy to get more of it.

 

The Hound stilled her with hands of steel. “Little bird, you’re so eager… Don’t you worry, I’m just as impatient to fuck you as you are,” he rasped, seizing his member and pointing it upward.

 

Sansa backed up and helped him by raising herself. Once the thick end of his shaft had found her entrance and slowly started making its way into her, Sandor removed his hand and let her continue on her own. It was a strange position they were in. Once more, no one had ever told her a man and a woman could couple like that. Were there other options beyond those she had experienced so far? Probably and the idea was thrilling.

 

Installed as she was on top of Sandor, Sansa had control over the speed he entered her. She started by going very gradually for she was still sore from their previous encounters and simply unused to being invaded by a man at all. Even as careful as she was though, the penetration of his member was painful but in an exhilarating way that made her see stars. Nevertheless, the Hound’s shaft barely met any resistance. All the meticulous care the man had given her lady’s part had made it so slippery that she was plunging around him faster than she’d have preferred. Very soon, Sandor was totally sheathed inside of her and the girl collapsed over his chest. For an instant, she stayed immobile, her upper arms propped against his hairy torso and her face cast down while she let her insides acclimate to his width. As she waited, Sandor leisurely but firmly stroked her body, his hands going all the way from her back to her breasts and thighs.

 

When she finally raised her gaze to meet her husband’s, Sansa was somewhat relieved to see that he was just as dishevelled as she felt. Sweat was pearling on his brow and tendrils of hair were plastered to his skin while his eyes looked drowsy and fierce all at once. “That’s good, little bird,” he breathed, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper. “Now sit up and ride me.” With that, he gently pushed her up until her back was as straight as an arrow.

 

“Like this?” Sansa demanded, moving her hips in a similar manner that he did when they made love. She knew even before he answered she had guessed right by the vibration the action triggered in her loins and the shock that went up her spine. If she loved it, he was sure to also, wasn’t he?

 

“Yes, Sansa. That’s perfect,” Sandor muttered roughly, proving her right. He was grinding his teeth and cupping both her hips with his hands to help her in her endeavour.

 

As she began rocking her pelvis, Sansa could only agree with him. This was perfection. She loved how his large manhood filled her so very completely and revelled in feeling stretched out around him. They were joined in a very concrete and primal manner – one as old and eternal as time.

 

This new position had its advantages, for while Sansa loved being totally overwhelmed and dominated by Sandor, it gave her an impression of power over the situation she had never experienced before. Besides, as she kept on rolling her hips, Sansa hastily noticed how the sensitive spot just over her entrance was getting rubbed with every new thrust, which certainly didn’t bother her.

 

Moaning, she continued more vigorously, putting her weight on her nub and gently squeezing it with each of her comings and goings. Her ardour seemed to galvanise the Hound, for he tightened the hold he had on her and started energetically bucking his hips to shove himself deeper into her cleft. The sensation was so acute and delectable at the same time that it was growing arduous for Sansa to sit up and thus she was forced to lean over Sandor, laying her palms over his sturdy pectorals.

 

“You love that, little bird, don’t you?” he was panting, holding a cheek of her behind in each of his hands and using the unbending grip he had on them to keep her perfectly aligned as he stabbed her soft insides with his rock-solid member.

 

Her restraint all but gone, Sansa was nervously stirring her fingers over the Hound’s chest to better feel the firmness of his muscles. “Oh yes, Sandor… I do!” she replied, sensing she was on the edge of something vast and mysterious.

 

Her breasts were bouncing anytime their groins hit and the Hound followed their hypnotic dance with avid eyes until he apparently couldn’t resist anymore and suddenly lifted his head to press his face into them. He tried to lick and nibble at the nipples and silky white skin but it was no easy task with the constant swaying of their bodies and both his hands busy kneading her bottom. Eventually, he let his head fall down on the pillow again and threw it back, groaning like a wounded beast.

 

The heat in Sansa’s lower belly was effervescent and spreading from her centre to all of her extremities. She could sense something huge was coming upon her, something she had never experienced before. The prospect was exciting and frightening at the same time yet even if she had wished otherwise, there was no halting a process so well engaged. What was approaching was as unstoppable as a storm advancing over an uneasy ocean. It would keep on gliding toward its unknown destination - annihilating all that stood in between - and curiously, Sansa couldn’t wait to be engulfed.

 

And then it happened: she was squirming over Sandor and getting more and more restless, rolling and pushing her hips against his while he rhythmically impaled her with unhurried strength, when suddenly it became all too much for her small frame to bear. All the tension which had accumulated in her imploded with the potency and violence of gallons of water trapped in too small a space, and she lost the meagre semblance of control she still had over herself. Letting out all the steam that had accumulated in her core, she cried out in the least ladylike fashion she could have imagined while strangely not even caring how wanton she sounded. She was completely humbled and powerless in the face of the force that was taking her over and it was with felicity and gratitude that she submitted, wanting no more than to be its slave forever. Yet, nothing could last that long and therefore very soon, the intensity of the exquisite sensation receded. Unwilling to let go of something so perfect so easily, Sansa obstinately kept on moving her middle in hope that it would all start again.

 

“Seven Hells, little bird… seeing you come… that was a thing of beauty,” Sandor mumbled, his eyes round with pleased stupefaction. “My turn now.”

 

As he finished his words, he moved his hands from Sansa’s behind and hooked them so solidly around her hips that it almost hurt. The girl braced herself for what she knew was coming but before she had time to draw in a breath, the Hound began shoving himself inside of her at twice the speed he had gone previously. As he did, he frantically yanked her back and forth over him, using her as if she was some mere device existing for the sole purpose of his own pleasure. Despite how distasteful it should have been, the idea was stirring to Sansa and she whimpered in unison with him as he came nearer to his climax. Her upper body was swinging with each new impact and to prevent her head from bobbing, Sansa had to lower herself over him and bury her face in the crook of his neck. She could tell it would be only a question of seconds before he lost it by the way he was pounding into her. In fact, his hammering was getting so strong that she was starting to tense against the tickle of pain it was waking in the depths of her belly. Before she had time to ponder whether she should tell him or not, the Hound groaned and froze for a brief instant before resuming his claiming of her at a slower but just as mighty pace. By now, Sansa knew well enough what that meant. He was spending himself in her. There was no knowing if it was her imagination or not but as he pulled her groin flush against his - keeping her there throughout his peak - Sansa was sure she could feel his warm seed spilling into her womb. _Perhaps he’s giving me a child right at this moment,_ Sansa mused dreamily, the idea getting her queerly aroused.

 

When after a few heartbeats Sandor had finished emptying himself in her, his brawny limbs became limp and he loosened the previously steely-hold he had on her. Rolling onto her side, Sansa let out an exhausted but happy sigh and they both wrapped their arms around each other and joined their lips in a languorous kiss.

 

“That was wonderful, Sandor,” she breathed softly when they parted. The words having consumed the last of her energy, the girl dozed off just an instant later.

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Sandor**

 

 

All was beauty, comfort and softness around him, yet the featherbed Sandor was in didn’t have much to do with the warmth he felt inside. No, the sole true cause of his blissful state was the incomparable sensation of tender limbs holding onto him and the smooth-skinned body that flanked him. Although he usually was not a man to lie-in, this morning he simply didn’t have the heart to break the harmony that surrounded him. Nevertheless, the fact that he would very soon have no choice but to get moving was undeniable. Sandor knew he and Sansa should already have been on the road by now and yet, anytime he gazed at his new wife’s peaceful face, he postponed the moment he would have to call her name and gently shake her awake.

 

Asleep, the little bird looked like a bloody angel and the innocent and pure aura it gave her reminded Sandor of just how young she truly was. It had been easy to forget as they consummated their marriage yesterday afternoon and evening. While her body still had the youthful slenderness characteristic of her age, it was shapely as only a woman’s could be. There was no guilt though. As eager and warm as she was becoming, it was clear as the day she was well ready for a man. Each time he took her, she lost more of her maidenly shyness and given how much they had been at it yesterday, there wasn’t much left of that anymore. Both of them were exhausted when they had finally fallen into oblivion after hours of alternately coupling, kissing and chatting. The bedding had left the man completely drained of his energy as well as his semen but as he drifted into sleep, he had truly felt _happy_ for the first time in his buggering existence

 

Sandor snorted at the thought. How his bloody life had changed since the love-philtre! Once that was all over, he would need to find a way to thank the pyromancer for what the poor old bugger was sure to believe was the worst mistake of his career. _I’ll give him gold. Isn’t that what everyone always wants?_ Sandor mused, his mouth twitching with contempt. Still, the time to relax and celebrate hadn’t come yet. The little bird and he still needed to evade the Lord Hand a little while longer. Yawning, he stretched his arms before folding them behind his head. _We should go now,_ he thought despite not moving an inch. Then watching the girl’s dainty, sleeping features, he relented and changed his mind. _I’ll give her just another half-hour,_ Sandor decided, feeling his own eyelids grow heavy.

 

He must have dozed off then, because the next thing Sandor knew, he was roused by an ugly, brutal noise.

 

 _BANG! BANG!_ Loud knocks reverberated from the door.

 

His soldiering reflexes instantly taking over, the man rose to his feet even before he was fully awake. _What the fuck is that?_ he wondered numbly as he did.

 

“Open!” a commanding voice ordered from the corridor.

 

 _Fuck!_ Sandor mused, running stark naked to the window and looking down. As he had feared, a group of men were gathered below. The bastards were gazing up, some with complacent little smiles, others with sneers twisting their mouths. Thank to the contrast between the bright outside light and the relative dimness of the room, none of them could glimpse him, however Sandor himself could discern them well enough. These were the men who had beaten him up after he’d been caught fleeing from the little bird’s chamber just a few days ago. These were Stark men.

 

 _Seven Hells. They’ve found us,_ Sandor cursed inwardly, dread and most of all, wrath at himself viciously pulling at his stomach. What a damned fool he had been to let himself grow so sloppy. They should never have stopped so soon or at least, not laid in bed for so fucking long. There was no wondering why falling in love was a warrior’s most common downfall. It transformed a previously careful man into a reckless idiot and Sandor was no exception to the bloody rule.

 

“Answer! We know you’re in there!” the same voice vociferated.

 

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered nervously. He hadn’t noticed she was awake but was it really surprising with that buggering racket? The poor girl was clutching the covers up to her chin, her eyes wide with terror. “It’s my lord father!”

 

“I had guessed as much, little bird,” Sandor hissed dryly.

 

“Answer him, Sandor! Please!” she begged, getting more agitated by the second.

 

He had no other bloody choice. They had no way out with those armed men waiting beneath their window and anyway, Sandor had not planned on fleeing from her father forever. He’d just have preferred to wait a bit longer before they had to face him again.

 

Resigned, he nodded at Sansa and turned to gaze in the door’s direction. “You’ve found us,” he replied sourly, pitching his voice louder to be sure he was well understood. “And nice job by the way. I looked out the window and I do realise we’re stuck. You’ve won this round, Lord Stark.”

 

Even through the thick wooden door, Sandor could feel the man’s relief at hearing he was willing to talk. “Perhaps but I hardly see what it’s worth at this point,” Ned Stark uttered with obvious bitterness. “There’s not much I can do to change what’s been done.”

 

Sandor relaxed slightly at that. To hear the Hand all but admit his failure was a good sign, yet it was best he didn’t become too confident either. “Well in that case, why did you follow us?”

 

“My daughter. Is she well? Is she still with you at all?” he asked with palpable worry.

 

Sandor almost laughed at that. “Of course she is! What the fuck did you believe? That I would go through all that trouble just to abandon her or worse, _kill her_ the moment I was out of your sight?!”

 

Ned Stark didn’t acknowledge his comment. “Sansa? Answer me, please!” he demanded of his daughter.

 

Sandor glanced at his wife. She was still snuggling anxiously under the covers and apparently waited for his approval to speak. “Go ahead, little bird,” he whispered to her while walking to the chamber pot.

 

“I’m here, Father,” the girl announced in a timid but somehow strong voice.

 

“Are you well?” the Hand immediately inquired, his tone pathetically urgent as only an anxious father’s could be.

 

“Of course! Sandor would never hurt me!” the little bird cried so honestly that it warmed Sandor’s heart.

 

“So you weren’t forced into this?”

 

“Why, Father! Never!” she retorted, slightly offended.

 

Sandor snorted with pride at that, the first drops of his long retained piss flowing into the chamber pot and echoing as it landed inside.

 

“I know you and Clegane are… married…” Ned Stark continued uneasily. “We’ve met the septon that celebrated your union. Forgive my insistence, Sansa, but I want you to assure me you truly agreed of _your own free will_. There are enough men around this inn to get you out of this situation if that is your wish.”

 

Sansa’s pretty face became red and she tossed the covers she had held so tightly onto her lap. “Oh, no! Father, please!” she exclaimed, her voice losing its usual poise. “Sandor and I are in love! This is a true marriage, truer than any other! _I love him_!”

 

From the silence that followed, Sandor could sense the Hand’s exasperation even while he didn’t see him. The notion filled him with satisfaction and he shook his cock to rid himself of the last urine drops that still clung to its end, a smirk on his lips.

 

A long sigh was heard coming from the corridor. “Well, Sansa, to be truthful I can’t pretend I wasn’t expecting your answer, with the potion and all that… that followed,” Ned Stark admitted, each of his words spoken with difficulty, as if they added weight to a burden he was carrying on his shoulders. “I thought about it and although it doesn’t please me to concede to it, I’m not sure there would be much sense in opposing… _what has come to pass_. I realise it’s too late and that with this potion you’ve both drunk, neither of you will ever see reason,” he mumbled tartly. “I take it the marriage has already been – ah -”

 

“ _Consummated_? Yes, many times and more,” Sandor cut in without missing a beat.

 

At hearing his reply, the little bird eyed him reprovingly, yet despite how shocked she obviously was, Sandor couldn’t keep himself from snickering. Averting his stare, he retrieved his underclothes from the floor and put them on, all the while biting at his lip to stop himself from looking too pleased.

 

“All right, Clegane, I don’t need details,” the Lord Hand was responding with evident distaste and annoyance. “I said I wouldn’t fight the inevitable and I’ll hold to my word. Still, I’d like to have a private talk with you both. I have a few conditions before I recognise your union. Please, let me in.”

 

Ned Stark’s words finally dawning on him, Sandor’s heart skipped a beat. Had he _really_ heard right? The girl’s so stuck-up and noble father had _agreed_ so easily? Disbelieving, he glanced at Sansa and at seeing her smile, he grinned in turn. “All right,” he started more calmly than he felt, squaring his shoulders and walking towards the door. “I’ll let you in but first you need to assure me that you won’t have my throat cut the first chance you get and most of all, that you won’t hurt Sansa.”

 

A growl of outrage was heard. “Why would I ever allow anyone to do any harm to _my own daughter_?”

 

“Some men do when they feel they have been dishonoured,” Sandor pointed out sharply.

 

“I would _never_!” the man responded, his anger plain.

 

“Fine, don’t take it like that. I was just making sure. I might be nothing to you, _Lord Stark_ , but believe my buggering word: as long as I live I’ll not let _anyone_ lay a single finger on Sansa, not even her bloody father.”

 

A few heartbeats passed before the Lord Hand spoke again but when he did, his fury had receded and he had regained his usual cold composure. “You won’t ever have to protect her from me, Clegane. In that, we can be allies at least,” he reluctantly replied. “And you don’t have to worry about your own safety around me and my men or that I will condemn your marriage later on.”

 

Gazing at the door with eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sandor hesitated for a couple of seconds. “That’s all good, I guess. Let’s just hope you won’t change your mind as soon as I open the door though.”

 

“Sandor! My lord father is an honourable man! He would never break his word!” the little bird interjected, frowning at him with her lithe arms folded over her pert little teats.

 

“My daughter is right, Clegane,” the Hand added stiffly.

 

Truth be told, Sandor knew he could trust him and had voiced his comment only to goad him. The Starks’ honour was nothing if not legendary, after all. “Forget what I said then. I’ll open it but you need to give us time to dress first.”

 

“Of course,” Ned Stark spat dryly. Being reminded that his daughter was naked with the Hound didn’t seem to please him in the least and Sandor’s lips curled into a smirk at the awareness.

 

“Oh, Sandor! Can you believe this?” Sansa murmured, both her hands cupped over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and astounded and shone with elation.

 

“Barely,” he replied, cracking a grin at her. “Hurry up, little bird. You don’t want to make your father wait so long that he changes his mind, do you?”

 

“Of course not!” Sansa exclaimed happily while jumping off the mattress.

 

The room was a bit messy after yesterday’s actions and their clothes were piled pell-mell on the floor. Sandor went through the stack and found Sansa’s fancy gown, shift and underclothes first and handed them to her before putting on his breeches and tunic. Once he was decently covered, he raised his gaze to the little bird to see that she was struggling with the laces on the side of her gown.

 

“Need help,” Sandor stated more than he asked while taking the strings from her hands and tying them clumsily for her. “You’re all set now.”

 

“Thank you, my lord,” the girl breathed melodiously, looking up at him with that adoring gaze she often had for him.

 

They strolled to the door arm in arm, the short distance crossed in a question of seconds. Although her smile was undeniably genuine, Sandor could feel the little bird was nervous to face her father as a married woman for the first time. Hoping to give her courage, he stroked her lower back very briefly before removing his hand and pushing the bolt open.

 

Through the slit of the ajar door, Sandor noticed other men were present in the corridor with the Lord Hand. While their backs were lazily leaning against the opposite wall, the carelessness of their poses was deceptive for their hands were all near the hilts of their weapons and their stares fixed upon him. Straight as an arrow, Ned Stark was waiting before the threshold - lost in his undoubtedly dark thoughts - but when he saw the door move, his eyes instantly grew alert and darted to it. Sandor’s large build was all the man could see from the chamber and he thus resigned himself to not search for his daughter and gaze at him instead, the wordless battle of their stares lasting a couple of awkward heartbeats. The Hand was in a horrible state and it was easy to tell he hadn’t known a full night of sleep for quite some time. His features were so taut that every tendon of his face was visible through its wan skin and the circles under his eyes were almost as dark as tar.

 

“Come on in,” Sandor rasped, moving aside to allow him to enter.

 

Ned Stark didn’t wait an instant to oblige. Once the door was closed behind him, he immediately turned his attention to his daughter, appraising her with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The girl smiled timidly at him, breathing a meek, “Good morning, Father,” while blushing a deep shade of pink but she rapidly lowered her stare to where her hands were nervously clasped before her, the heavy scrutiny of her father apparently too much for her. As if gazing their way burned his eyes, the Hand was squinting as he looked both his daughter and Sandor up and down, the sight of their dishevelled appearance making him wince. Sandor smirked. They were indeed not very presentable. Sansa’s hair was pretty as always but terribly messy and her gown was not properly adjusted and hanging loosely around her curves. Sandor wasn’t in any better state: the laces of his tunic weren’t closed at all – giving the Lord Hand an unobstructed view of the hair of his chest - and as he glanced down at himself, he realised he was still barefoot. _Oh well,_ he thought, the corner of his mouth curling up mischievously. _That will teach the man to go knocking on newlyweds’ doors mere hours after their bedding._ _He was bound to see something he didn’t like._

 

Ned Stark’s gaze was travelling around the chamber and his aversion only grew stronger when it fell on the unmade featherbed over which the hollowed shape of their bodies could still clearly be discerned. Exhaling loudly and looking away with an expression of utter disgust, he frowned and set his lips in a thin, white line.

 

“I’ll be honest with you,” he started tensely. “I’d rather have this discussion elsewhere, but as long as we are in this inn we won’t get privacy anywhere but in this chamber. I’ll not waste either of our time. The sooner I’ve told you all I need, the sooner we can be on our way to King’s Landing.”

 

Revelling in the Hand’s unease, Sandor allowed himself a faint smile. “That seems reasonable enough to me,” he agreed as pleasantly as his rough voice permitted.

 

“Father, Sandor,” Sansa called from where she stood next to the table. “Why don’t we all have a seat while we talk?”

 

Ned Stark grunted in approval and walked to the chair his daughter was showing him to. Sandor installed himself at the opposite side of the table and pulled a chair near his for Sansa to sit in. Once they were all settled, he poured two glasses of wine from the half-full jug that remained from the previous evening’s late-night snack he and the little bird had ordered. A half-loaf of bread, some cheese and a few pieces of sausage had also been left untouched and were spread on the table between them. Sandor nodded at the food.

 

“Hungry, Lord Stark? Have your pick. Be my guest,” he offered nonchalantly.

 

“No, thank you. I’ll wait after this is settled and eat something warm in the common room with my men,” the Lord Hand replied in that polite but frigid, dry tone so specific to him.

 

“You’ll take some wine at least?” Sandor inquired just as dryly, pushing one of the two tankards to him.

 

The man nodded. “Yes, thank you,” he muttered, taking a sip without raising his gaze from the dark-red liquid.

 

Gallantly, Sandor indicated to Sansa to have their common tankard first. After having delicately wetted her lips on the wine, she handed it to Sandor and he took a long gulp out of the mug before settling it on the table.

 

Ned Stark cleared his voice and started. “As I said before you let me in, I’m agreeing to this marriage but I have a few conditions.”

 

“Go on,” Sandor encouraged, tearing chunks of bread from the loaf for him and Sansa and biting greedily into one. The Lord Hand might not be hungry but he was.

 

“Well, as you may have already deduced, the fact that you eloped is well known by now in King’s Landing. Still as we speak, neither I nor the king have publicly acknowledged any of this and therefore, the court’s acquaintance with the matter stands solely on rumours. I’ll make an official announcement as soon as we get back to the capital, however, I don’t think this will be enough to make your union appear legitimate. While I don’t believe the latter is truly possible, I do think organising another ceremony at the keep might help your cause. That _thieves_ wedding you’ve had might be legal, its circumstances are still terribly dubious. I’ll wager some will doubt it has even happened at all.”

 

Sansa brought both her hands to her chest in excitement. “Really, Father? _Another wedding_?”

 

Sandor snorted in amusement at that.

 

“Nothing grand, Sansa,” Ned Stark severely told his daughter. “It will be as intimate as a court wedding can be and take place in the keep’s sept. Afterwards, there’ll be a small reception with a modest feast and that will be it.”

 

Despite his warning, the little bird was still as enchanted. She was all but wriggling in her seat in enthusiasm while smiling sweetly at Sandor and her reaction made the Hand’s face wrinkle even more.

 

“All right. I’ve no problem with that,” Sandor consented. With his dagger, he cut two slices of cheese and gave one to Sansa before biting into his. “Any other demands?”

 

“Of course,” Ned Stark replied. “Once you’re wedded, I’ll send both of you to Winterfell. I don’t want Sansa to be mocked for having married so much lower than she was destined. You might not care about what people think or say, Clegane, but unlike you Sansa is sensitive and despite what she’ll assure you, being disregarded will affect her. I’m not pretending no one will judge you in the North but at least people respect our family enough not to voice their disapproval aloud and the mentalities are not as elitist up there either. Besides, we have no real court to speak of at Winterfell so there is less gossip and bickering. Consider yourself lucky for that also, Clegane. I do miss the peace and quiet I had there.”

 

Sandor’s mouth twitched and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’ll see what Cersei has to say about that.”

 

“Cersei will do as her husband asks and the king will agree with me,” Ned Stark declared crisply. “If she proves me wrong and resists too much, I’ll compensate her. Take it as Sansa’s dowry to you.”

 

“I’ve gold too, you know,” Sandor hurriedly reminded him, irked at the notion that he may owe the man even more. “You don’t need to buy me off as if I were bloody cattle at a livestock market. Furthermore, in spite of what they probably think, the Lannisters don’t own me. I may have sworn loyalty to them but I’m not a serf and as free as any other House-born man of this realm.”

 

Not the least moved by Sandor’s assertion, the Hand kept his harsh gaze fixed on him, his brows lowered over his eyes and face impassive. “I’ve never questioned that,” he uttered flatly. “Still, your foremost allegiance will need to be to House Stark from now on and I don’t want to create any conflicts with the Lannisters thank to that. If needs be, I’ll pay and believe me, Clegane, if I lost out where you are concerned, I’ll save a small fortune with the princely dowry I won’t have to pay. What I might end up granting Cersei for you won’t have anything to do with all I was supposed to cede to the King, or in fact, what I’d have given to whichever appropriate suitor I’d have chosen later on if Sansa had not been betrothed to the prince.”

 

“If you say so,” Sandor assented without much enthusiasm. That any man would ask for gold or land to marry Sansa was beyond him. He’d have been ready to pay to have her. “Is all set now or do you have other conditions still?”

 

“I have only one left and then we’ll be set,” Ned Stark promised, watching him over the rim of his tankard.

 

Popping a piece of sausage into his mouth, Sandor waited for the man to continue.

 

“Although your wedding will be modest, there is nonetheless decorum to follow and preparing everything will take time.” As he finished his sentence, the Hand’s face turned ashen. “I’ll also have to write to your mother as soon as we get back to King’s Landing,” he added quietly while glancing at Sansa, the dread the idea woke in him all too clear. “I’ll not set a date before I have received her reply in case she wants to attend. If it’s her wish, the wait will be even longer.”

 

Sansa smiled empathetically. “I’m sure Mother will understand. You don’t have to worry, Father. You’re not to blame for any of this after all and once she sees how happy I am, she’ll surely share my joy,” she kindly assured him. “I do hope she decides to come even though it will delay our wedding. It would be so wonderful to have both of you present!”

 

Nodding grimly, the man returned his attention to Sandor. “As you have probably deduced, chances are up to two moons will have passed before the day of your wedding. Until then, I think it’d be preferable that Sansa lived at the Tower of the Hand with me and that you, Clegane, kept your own quarters.”

 

Unwilling to believe he had understood correctly, Sandor was speechless for the fleeting instant it took the man’s meaning to hit him. “Seven _buggering_ Hells! Do you realise what the fuck you’re asking here?!” he roared when it did at last, abruptly getting to his feet. “She’s my bloody wife! We’re fucking _married_ , by the damned Stranger!”

 

“Sandor, please!” Sansa tried to soothe him, pulling at his sleeve to incite him to retake his seat.

 

“I’m sorry but this is my request and I’ll stand by it,” Ned Stark retorted stiffly, his stare boring defiantly into Sandor’s. “Since no one that matters has witnessed your first marriage ceremony, in the eyes of the court the second one will be the only that will count. If you live together in the meantime, people will talk. Adding to the ill reputation your union is sure to have is the last thing we all need.”

 

“This is bloody ridiculous!” Sandor hissed, fuming like never before. His upper body slightly bowed toward the Hand over the table, Sandor was glaring down at him, all the while ignoring Sansa as she vainly pulled at his sleeve in hope that he would sit back in his chair. “Do you truly think anyone will believe I made off with your daughter for a few days without taking her maidenhead? You’ll not fool anyone with that mummer’s farce – only deprive a rightful husband of his wife!”

 

“I know well enough the court won’t be duped, Clegane,” Ned Stark retaliated irritably. “Nevertheless, keeping up appearances is important, _vital_ even in your case. While people thinking badly of your alliance and how it has come to happen is inevitable, they’ll never dare make their opinion public if none of your actions speak against you. Since I cannot undo the mess you have created, Clegane, I’ll at least assure myself no further harm is done and salvage some of my daughter’s honour.”

 

“But we _are_ married, _Lord Stark_! There’d be nothing improper about us living together! You just have to tell the court - and the whole buggering world too if you like! – that we _are_ and that will be it. I’m not sure that I can agree to see my rights as a husband be taken away like this. I-”

 

“Sandor! Stop it, please!” Sansa cried out, tugging hard enough at Sandor’s arm to make him reel. “My lord father has been very conciliatory so far and it’d be very unfair if we didn’t agree to do our part also!”

 

Taken aback by the girl’s scolding, Sandor wordlessly stared at her for an eye blink or two, unsure of how he should react or even what he should think.

 

“Thank you, Sansa,” Ned Stark murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and fingers.

 

“Father, if we agree, I’ll be free to go where I will in the castle as before the philtre, won’t I?” Sansa asked calmly, the deep flush of her face the only reminder of her previous outburst.

 

The Hand seemed to hesitate but then he grimaced and gave in. “Of course.”

 

“Then, we’ll be able to see each other, Sandor! It won’t be so bad and afterwards, we’ll be together _forever_!” Sansa pleaded, her eyes hopeful and insistent at once.

 

His hands balled into tight fists, Sandor clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, all the while glaring at Sansa and that _bloody_ father of hers. They had teamed up against him and now it was becoming all too obvious he would have no other fucking choice but to yield, he realised, exhaling loudly and throwing his head back in frustration. “All right then,” he snarled, letting himself fall heavily into his chair. “I’ll sleep in my poxy little chamber, alone in the same damned pallet I’ve known for all those long years until the wedding if that’s what you two want! I hope you’re happy, Lord Stark.”

 

“ _Happy_ would be an overstatement but yes, I am content that you have agreed,” the man answered, his voice as stern as his northern weather.

 

“But, Father?” Sansa called suddenly. “I too have my own conditions before all is set.”

 

Both Sandor and the Hand momentarily forgot their respective misery to eye her with curiosity.

 

“I won’t be taking moon tea once we get to the Red Keep. In fact, I don’t think I’ll drink that awful beverage _ever again_!” she announced, anger piercing through her usually so polite and mild façade. “I swear now that I am married, Father, if you force me to ingest some, I’ll ask Sandor to kidnap me all over again!”

 

Narrowing his eyes at his daughter, Ned Stark examined her with the same appalled caution one would a poisonous beast. “That won’t be necessary Sansa. I think we can take that risk,” he acceded after a moment of obviously painful reflection. “Anyhow if you were to be… _with child_ , it won’t show until you are gone from the capital and the exact date of your union won’t be something people will worry about in the North.”

 

Sansa jolted in her chair in jubilation. “Oh, thank you, Father!” she let out happily, beaming at him.

 

“Don’t thank me, Sansa. If it had been in my power, I would _never_ have allowed any of this,” the Hand reminded her darkly. Still, despite his words and general demeanour, the little bird’s joy seemed to mollify him for his lips curved in the slightest of smiles. It lasted no more than a second or two though and after having swallowed down the last of his wine, the man pushed his tankard to the middle of the table and turned toward Sandor. “I won’t lie, this is far from the fate I had dreamed of for my daughter but I’m nevertheless relieved we have come to an agreement. Since I don’t see what profit I’d gain from being bitter about your union, I’ll work on trying to accept the situation yet believe me, the battle’s not won yet.” With that, Ned Stark stood. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your packing and head downstairs to eat my first real meal in more than a day. I’m starving.”

 

“As you wish, Lord Stark,” Sandor muttered lethargically, not moving an inch from the chair he was slumped in.

 

“We’ll be ready to go when you are, Father!” Sansa promised with all the energy Sandor was lacking as Ned Stark shut the door behind him. “Oh Sandor! I’m so happy!” she then exclaimed, rising from her chair and jumping onto Sandor’s lap, both her legs closing around his waist. Her little hands were clutching at his shoulders and she was smiling at him, her eyes sparkling so very beautifully.

 

His hands sliding over her sides, Sandor kissed her neck before leaning his brow in its crook. “Gods, little bird,” he breathed desperately. “I’m torn between elation and anguish. Do you realise how fucking long it could take for your mother to receive the raven and arrive in King’s Landing? How the Hells am I suppose to wait so long to have you in my bed again?”

 

Cajoling, Sansa massaged the back of his head and neck, her long and agile fingers digging pleasantly into his skin. “But we’ll have the rest of our lives afterwards! And besides, we can meet during the day and… _and sneak to your room_ ,” she added in a whisper, the good girl apparently still too shy to voice such a naughty proposition out loud.

 

That was a reassuring prospect, one Sandor had somehow not thought about. “Yes, you’re right,” he acquiesced, his palms unhurriedly caressing her thin waist. Yet in spite of his words, he was still anxious. “Perhaps I’ll make it after all,” he rasped, hoping to convince himself.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His everyone! Here’s the final chapter of this fic! Hope you’ve enjoyed the ride. If you did, I’d be very happy to hear your thoughts and receive a final comment. :P   
> I’d also like to say a very special thank you to my beta of 2 years and a half, Wildsky Sheri, who’s going to take a break from betaying. Thank you so much! Without her, all my stories would never have been as good and I would never have learned as much as I did either. I owe her A LOT!!!

**Eddard**

Eddard was relieved: the wedding had been celebrated at last after nearly two whole moons of waiting and very soon, all this misadventure would be behind him. _Well, not exactly,_ he corrected, thinking of Winterfell’s very soon-to-be new inhabitant. Life would never be the same for him and his family – no matter how much he wished it otherwise. Even when the blessed day he stopped being Hand of the realm finally came and he returned to his beloved North, the Hound would always be around.

 

The marriage ceremony had been celebrated earlier in the day and all the guests were now in the Hand’s Small Hall for the reception. Minstrels were singing and playing all the regular ballads to the joy of the youngest or simply more energetic of the crowd who had already left their tables to dance in the centre of the hall. A few small groups of men had formed throughout the place to chat and laugh very noisily, each of them with a tankard in hand but the quiet, elderly and greedy had preferred to keep their seats and were still crowded along the long tables.

 

Despite the initial unpopularity of Sansa and Sandor Clegane’s match, all the guests seemed to be having a great time and the disapproval with which the news had been received at first was now apparently all but forgotten. The fact that they had just assisted in the union of the daughter of one of the Seven Kingdoms’ most ancient and noble Houses and the grandson of a kennel master apparently didn’t bother anyone anymore. _People always cease to complain when they are fed and given wine at someone else’s expense_ , Ned concluded bitterly. He was probably the only person in the hall not enjoying himself. Well, perhaps apart from Cersei Lannister, who was very haughtily nibbling at her food at the other end of the head table, a stiff little smile on her lips. The burning spark that shone in her emerald-green eyes anytime she glanced in the king’s direction made it easy for Ned to guess how much he annoyed her. Robert was standing nearby and laughing with some knights, one of his large hands laid on a very busty servant girl’s shoulder blade, all the while expertly ignoring his wife and children. Sitting by his mother’s side, Joffrey was talking to his two younger siblings with a superior air about him but the latter kept eating their dessert without giving him much attention.

 

Ned himself was so very tired. He had slept well for a few nights since Catelyn’s arrival to the capital a little more than a sennight before, however, the anticipation of having to face her had been the cause of many sleepless nights, of which he still bore the scars and he was now starting to fear he’d never be able to shake off the weariness that had lately became his constant companion.

 

“Oh, Sandor!” Eddard suddenly heard his daughter exclaim.

 

Even in the mist of the feast’s general hubbub, Clegane’s grating laughter easily reached his ears as it resounded in the hall in the same instant. Wincing, Ned turned to peer in the sound’s way, his displeasure only growing at seeing how Sansa was leaning on her new husband. They were holding onto each other as tightly as could be expected from any genuinely in love newlyweds and while Ned should logically have been happy to see his oldest daughter so happily married, he sadly was incapable. The groom was Sandor Clegane after all, a man more suited to staying married to his sword and living in barracks than being husband to such a genteel young lady as Sansa. At least, the fact that he cared for her was unquestionable to anyone who spent more than a few minutes by their side. In spite of how the idea did reassure him, having to constantly witness their affection was beyond irksome to Ned. His only consolation was that they had agreed to live separately until their second wedding and that his daughter had thereby slept peacefully in her own chamber every night since their return from the inn.

 

True to form, the king had been totally shocked when he first heard of Ned’s condition.

 

“ _To separate newlyweds_?!” he had roared, his eyes wide with incomprehension and anger. “How could you ever have asked for something so harsh? Ned! This is beyond cruel and makes no sense at all!”

 

After long explanations, Robert had thankfully understood and very reluctantly admitted Eddard had a point. Nevertheless, he had insisted the Hound and Sansa be allowed to see each other as much as they wanted during the day. Ned had acceded to his friend’s demand and quickly begun suspecting Clegane had been given more time off than usual to compensate for his lonely nights. Almost daily, the man had come to the Tower of the Hand, requesting to see Sansa. While all his guards resented it, Eddard had instructed them not to interfere and always let him enter. He was even allowed to take her out as long as Ned was informed of where they were going, that their plans were reasonable and that Sansa was back at least an hour before supper.

 

Their outings consisted mainly of simple walks in the castle’s gardens but sometimes, the Hound would take Sansa out of the Red Keep’s walls to visit some of the high-end shops that thrived in the capital’s richest areas and she always came back with presents at such times. By now, her collection of precious jewels, scarves and exotic sweets had grown quite impressively but as if that wasn’t enough, around five new expensive-looking gowns had been delivered to the Tower of the Hand about a moon ago and three more had arrived recently. At that rate, it wouldn’t be very long before the Hound had spent the totality of his winnings from the Hand’s tourney. Such expenses were unreasonable and something Ned didn’t approve of, yet as Clegane was entitled to spend his gold as he wished, he had kept his opinion to himself.

 

Still, the worst to Eddard had been witnessing them strolling along the keep’s corridor, always arm in arm and laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Servants and noblemen and women invariably stopped whatever they were doing to follow them with their gazes - some discreetly, others not at all. People were curious and never lost an occasion to see for themselves the most talked about lovers in King’s Landing. While Sansa had always been reserved and self-conscious in the past, with Clegane by her side, she became less timid and was often heard giggling loudly when she was with him, which of course only attracted more attention to them. At least, Eddard had never seen them kiss in public nor heard that they had but that was cold comfort that didn’t assuage his spirit much.

 

Taking a long gulp out of his tankard, Ned scanned the hall for his wife’s elegant form. She was near a corner, speaking with a group of older noblewomen and while the muscles of her face were tense, she nonetheless seemed serene. She hadn’t been when she first arrived at the capital.

 

Eddard had been very nervous to face her and with good reason, for Catelyn had glowered at him, her mouth pulled in a deep and severe frown from the moment she spotted him waiting for her at the port. Her agitation had been palpable even from afar and Ned had hoped upon seeing her that she had been able to sleep more than he had during her trip. Without even a kiss or a word of greeting, she had demanded explanations from him as soon as she had gotten near enough to speak. Ser Rodrik, who had made the journey with her, had seemed extremely ill-at-ease to be present at such a delicate and personal moment and had insisted on sitting outside the wagon next to the driver to give them some privacy. Once all the luggage had been retrieved and the horses had begun their slow progress through the packed and dirty streets of King’s Landing, Ned had at last acceded to his wife and begun recounting everything he had already told her in detail in the letter he had sent her. Many times, she interrupted him in his narration to make him repeat this or that, her disbelief and dismay plain as day. It had been obvious she had distrusted most of what he said. Ned couldn’t blame her for her scepticism: even he had first thought the love-philtre to be a charlatan’s fabrication, yet to see her doubt him had nevertheless been hurtful.

 

Poor Cat had written back the moment she had received his raven, imploring him to cancel that _absurd wedding_ or at least, to put everything on hold until she arrived – because she would come no matter what he decided, she had promised in her postscript. By the tone of her letter, it had been obvious she had believed Ned had completely lost his mind due to exhaustion from his new position and that her presence was direly needed. Eddard had continued the preparations despite her adjurations – knowing that their cause was lost and that she wouldn’t be able to fix the situation as she probably hoped.

 

When he had informed Sansa and the Hound about Catelyn’s decision to attend their wedding and reminded them of the delay it implied, Clegane had predictably begun swearing. The impressive string of curses he uttered instantly brought a frown to Eddard’s brow, yet Sansa had calmed her beastly husband-to-be before he had to intervene which had once more forced him to remark on his daughter’s surprising ability to control him. _Good for her,_ he had mused. _Being the wife of such a man won’t always be easy but at least if he’s besotted enough with her to listen and try to behave when she asks, things will be more tolerable for everyone._

 

Catelyn had wished to see Sansa from the moment she set foot in the Red Keep but Ned had predicted everything and asked Sansa to spend the afternoon in her room for once so that he might speak to her mother undisturbed and that she be available when the time was right. The Hound had also been ordered to stay in his quarters lest he stumbled upon them by chance as they headed for the king’s solar as Cat would lose it completely if she caught sight of him. Ned didn’t want to start picturing how things might have gone in such an event.

 

To help him make Cat understand the plight they were in and be sure she realised he was still as sane as he had been when they last saw each other, Eddard had set up a little meeting with the king and Adelardus, the pyromancer responsible for the whole affair. Just as she had with him, Catelyn had made them repeat their accounts from beginning to end many times. She had desperately searched for a way out of the messy picture they were painting for her but it was all to no avail, she realised after hours of turning the situation upside down. Unshed tears were shining in her eyes when she finally yielded and admitted in the poised voice she used when she didn’t want to show her emotions that they had _probably_ done the best they could. She had then promised she would accept the union if Sansa assured her _herself_ that marrying Sandor Clegane was truly what she desired. Ned had breathed a sigh of relief at that. Having witnessed it himself, he knew how sensitive his daughter was on the subject and didn’t doubt for an instant that she would make a show of convincing her mother of the _truthfulness and_ _purity_ of the love she and the Hound shared.

 

Seeing his wife and daughter reunited had been moving to Ned. Both of them had jumped into each other’s arms and their embrace had lasted at least a couple of minutes. To allow them to have a private conversation, the man had shortly left the chamber and headed to his solar where a monstrously high pile of documents waited to be overviewed. After what had seemed to Ned as about two hours, Catelyn had joined him in his solar and announced that she was ready to see Sandor Clegane. The meeting that had followed had been awkward to say the least. As soon as their future son-in-law had appeared on the threshold, a hush had fallen over the room and Cat’s face had dropped for the split second it took for her to school her features and regain her cool. While she had already met the Hound in the past, she most likely had never given him much attention or even spoken to him. Tall and vigorous, he was certainly a capable and healthy-looking man, yet these qualities were overshadowed by the unforgiving burns that marred half of his face. And as if one flaw wasn’t enough, he was hardly likable with his unpredictable mood swings, sharp tongue and crude language. Eddard had feared the worst and silently prayed to the old gods that all went for the best as Clegane installed himself in the chair Catelyn was showing him to, not far from where Sansa was sitting. Her eyes on her betrothed, the latter had kindly greeted him with a broad and adoring smile on her lips, apparently unaware of her mother’s uneasiness.

 

From the moment the conversation started, it had been evident to Eddard by the subdued way he behaved that Sansa had coached the Hound. That had been a pleasant surprise, yet even at his most composed and civil, Clegane was still not a very courteous person. His posture was too relaxed, the look in his eyes slightly smug and his tone as dry and flat as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Not a woman to be easily impressed or discouraged, Cat had shortly taken the bull by the horns and began asking him questions about his family, his training as a warrior and his education just as she would have done with any proper suitor. Could he read? Could he write? Had he any other useful skills? It had gone on and on like that for what had seemed like hours to Ned. With a remarkable economy of words, the Hound had patiently but unenthusiastically answered every question with that hoarse voice of his, never elaborating unless Cat demanded more details - which she almost always did. The sun had been about to set when she had at last told Clegane he could go and the man had grunted a salutation and retired.

 

Despite the brave face she had shown throughout the interview, Catelyn had taken all this harder than one might have believed and she barely exchanged a word with Eddard all evening afterwards. She did retrieve her smile and break her silence for the hour that Arya visited them but no sooner had she been gone than Cat had secluded herself in a corner of their room and fallen back into her gloom. It had almost been a relief when she began weeping as they prepared for sleep.

 

“My poor little girl!” she had murmured over and over, unable to stop herself once she had started.

 

Sadly, as Ned had shared her pain and despair, he had been at a loss for soothing words. In his state of mind, his sole resort had been to hold her against him as they both fell asleep and offer her what meagre comfort he could while hoping that it might be enough.

 

Catelyn was no woman to bask in self-pity and Ned had therefore not been surprised when she awoke the next morning dry-eyed and ready to move on. Her determination to change her perspective for Sansa’s sake had been obvious and he never saw her cry about their daughter’s fate again afterwards.

 

Every morning that followed, she made a habit of accompanying Sansa to the balcony that overlooked the yard. From there, they would watch as the Hound sparred with knights and sellswords, all the while chatting and working on their embroidery. Once the men were done training, Clegane would always join them upstairs and Cat used the opportunity to have short discussions with him and get to know him better.

 

When later at night she would speak to Ned in the privacy of their chamber, her words about him were never negative. She would say things like: “Sandor Clegane is by far the fiercest and most skilled swordsman I have ever seen. It’s good; we can always trust him to protect Sansa. I can tell he loves her,” or: “Robb will gain a lot from practicing with him. Being challenged by a warrior so accomplished will keep him on his guard and teach him to never be lazy in battle,” and even: “He’s a hardworking man and we’re always in need of those in Winterfell. We’ll be the stronger for it.”

 

By the cold tone and lack of enthusiasm she used when she voiced these remarks, it had been evident to Ned that Catelyn had tried to convince him as well as herself. Yet, with each new day that came, the stratagem did on the trick for her, for she became progressively more relaxed and even began smiling more often to the point that Ned had soon been forced to realise that she was taking the union far better than himself.

 

 _It’s for the best. It’s she who’s going to have to live with him from now on - not me. It wouldn’t do for her to be continuously bitter about it,_ Ned had reasoned many times. Somehow though, while the notion was absurd, to witness her genuinely grow to accept the situation made him feel increasingly lonesome and miserable.

 

The impression was stronger than ever today as he contemplated the merry crowd he was surrounded with. All these people were reunited expressly to celebrate a wedding that didn’t make any sense at all, yet no one but he seemed to remember how it had come from a terrible mistake and had never been meant to happen.

 

Sighing deeply, Eddard pushed his tankard away and rose from his seat. He needed to relieve himself and since even so much as a moment by himself would do him some good he left the Hand’s Small Hall with no hesitation, only to bump into Arya as soon as he entered the corridor. Standing on just one foot, she was moving her arms around her in strange, smooth motions

 

“What are you doing, Arya?” he asked once he got within earshot.

 

Deep in concentration, the girl hadn’t noticed him and the surprise made her lose her balance. “Oh, it’s _only_ _you_ , Father!” she exclaimed with exaggerated relief as she turned toward him.

 

Eddard smiled indulgently at that, letting the slight pass.

 

“I’m practicing some exercises Syrio taught me,” Arya declared, her eyes shining with excitement as she approached him. “He says I’m still far too sloppy and need to apply myself and work very hard if I ever wish to become even a passable water dancer and so I’m using every free moment I have throughout the day to do it.”

 

“That’s good, Arya. Now, if you could only be as dedicated to Septa Mordane’s teaching,” he regretted wearily.

 

The comment made Arya instantly lose her enthusiasm. Her face grave with worry, she nervously bit at her lip while waiting for him to continue, yet thankfully for her, Ned was in no mood to lecture her. His eyes narrowed, he gave her a weak smile and petted her hair before continuing on his way to the privies but before he could get very far, a small voice halted him again.

 

“Thank you, Father,” Arya said so timidly, she didn’t even sound like herself.

 

“For what?” he inquired, turning to gaze at her.

 

Her hands nervously clasped before her, the girl was shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Letting Syrio come with us to Winterfell.”

 

“Oh, you’re welcome, Arya,” Eddard replied honestly. He had known how important it was for her and had not hesitated to consent when she had asked about it. “Just promise me you’ll be good and do your best with your other lessons too.”

 

This time, the demand didn’t make her lose her good humour and she nodded - a large grin on her lips - before abruptly running away to only the gods knew where.

 

Shaking his head, Ned turned around and resumed his progress. He had decided it was best he sent Arya to Winterfell along with Sansa, Septa Mordane and now, Syrio Forel also, since he didn’t see the sense in keeping her in King’s Landing alone with him when he was always so busy. Still adamant about joining their two Houses, Robert had very briefly opposed it, bringing forth the idea of betrothing her to Joffrey instead of Sansa but Ned had refused at once, reminding his friend of the crossroads incident. The king had growled at that but agreed their enmity was probably irrevocable. In the days that had followed, there had been talks of betrothing Arya to Tommen, yet that had been rejected also for they were both far too young and probably not very compatible either. In the end, it had been determined that Myrcella and Robb was probably the best match they could come up with within their two families. Many years would go by before they were both fit to marry though and Myrcella would stay by her brothers’ and parents’ sides in King’s Landing in the meantime. Nevertheless, it had been settled that Robb would spend a couple of moons each year in the capital so that both youths got to know each other and that his education on courtly matters could be perfected.

 

After his visit to the privy, Eddard very reluctantly returned to the Hand’s Small Hall and was immediately met by Catelyn when he entered.

 

“Ned, come over here, Sansa has something to tell you,” she informed him, laying a light hand on his upper arm and leading him toward the other side of the hall. Her lips were set in that tense but resigned smile she so often sported these days.

 

Unsure he really wanted to know – for he already had an idea of what the news might be – Eddard followed anyway until they were facing Sansa and Sandor Clegane. His daughter seemed a little anxious, although happy, and her new husband had a self-satisfied air about him that augured nothing good.

 

“Father, I…” Her face colouring a deep shade of pink, Sansa hesitated for a couple of seconds, took a deep breath and continued. “I wanted you to know before we leave for Winterfell that I’m… _I’m with child_ ,” she announced shyly. Despite her timidity, her elation was so tangible that it radiated all around her.

 

Eddard shut his eyes for a heartbeat or two, suddenly fearing his habitual headache would choose that moment to make its comeback. When he looked at her again, his daughter was staring at him with eyes gleaming with hope. She really wanted him to share her joy and thus Ned forced himself to repress the anguish he was assailed with.

 

“That’s wonderful, Sansa,” he said, trying hard to sound cheerful.

 

Regardless of how transparent Eddard was, Sansa was easily deceived and began beaming at him, however, her husband’s ugly smirk told a whole other story. The man could clearly see right through his lie.

 

Unaware of the wordless dialogue that went on between them, Sansa suddenly lost her self-restraint and started speaking with indubitable excitement. “Oh, Father! I’m so happy you share my joy! I don’t know what I’ll call him yet – or her, of course!” She giggled at that, blushing prettily. “Sandor told me I could choose our child’s name myself and promised me that he wouldn’t object to whatever I decide and although I’m happy and grateful, it’s such an important decision! I feel like I’m bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders!”

 

Her effervescence was a little overwhelming for Ned and he had to use all of his willpower just to keep the feeble smile that twisted his mouth in place. Cat was thankfully not as petrified as him: she was nodding in agreement, empathy and patience exuding from her. He could guess they had had that conversation already by the accord that seemed to exist between them and yet, while his wife’s expression was kind and sincere, worry lines creased her brow and surrounded her eyes. In spite of her support, there was no doubting she was just as uneasy as Ned at the thought of their daughter’s condition.

 

Just as Sansa was about to continue her babbling, indistinct calls reverberated in the hall, saving Ned from having to listen to his daughter’s impressions about her upcoming motherhood any longer. While he at first didn’t hear what the commotion was about, it soon became as clear as day once the rest of the crowd grew silent. “Bed them!” men’s voices were exclaiming, bringing Ned to wonder why learning of his daughter’s state had rendered him so uncomfortable. Shortly, nearly every male present at the reception joined his voice to the clamour while women smiled and giggled and Ned soon recognised even the king’s own baritone roaring the accursed chant, to his utter annoyance.

 

Men were quickly gathering all around them and as Eddard swept his gaze over their faces, he unwittingly locked eyes with Jaime Lannister who had somehow emerged right next to him. The knight cracked his most radiant smile at him but Ned hastily averted his stare, his face winkling with distaste. In the same instant, a yelp was heard coming from his side and as he jerked his head in the sound’s direction, Eddard realised some men had managed to snatch Sansa from her husband’s grasp. She was now engulfed in the middle of a large party of men and being led toward the door, the auburn locks that flew over her head all he could still see of her.

 

“Oh!” Sansa’s cry could be heard coming from the centre of the party.

 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” the Hound snarled, his face red with anger as he made to stride after them. “I want my wife back!”

 

“Relax, Sandor. The bedding is one of our oldest and most beloved traditions. Robbing these men of their fun wouldn’t be very nice, don’t you think?” Jaime Lannister reminded him, putting himself right before him while settling a friendly hand on his shoulder.

 

Glaring dismissively at him, the Hound pushed the other man out of his way without an ounce of delicacy. “Bugger your bloody tradition!” he snapped, rushing toward where his bride was being carried away. The Kingslayer laughed as he almost fell to the floor. “This is my wife and I-” Clegane was exclaiming before he finally noticed the group of courageous women that had interposed themselves in between him and the men. The latter were now exiting the Hand’s Small Hall to head for the chamber the king had demanded be prepared for Sansa and the Hound in Maegor's Holdfast. Ned was thankful for Robert’s gesture since he had feared his daughter’s own room in the Tower of the Hand wouldn’t offer the privacy a newlywed couple required.

 

“You! Out of my bloody way!” Clegane hissed at the women.

 

The group backed slightly away as one, their previous playfulness all but gone, yet none of them made to move from his path.

 

“Fine then. Stay right where you are. I don’t care: I’ll pass right through you,” the Hound warned, his shoulders squared threateningly, as he resumed his walk.

 

Squinting exasperatedly at the scene, Eddard winced and turned his back to the crowd. He was in no way curious to know how this would end and had had his fill of social interactions for the day, at the very least. All he wanted now was some peace and quiet and at this point of the wedding celebrations, he was convinced no one would miss him if he vanished and found refuge in his chamber.

 

The sound of women gasping in shock and men bursting out into laugher echoed in the hall behind Ned as he approached the stairs that led to the Tower of the Hand, encouraging him to hasten his pace. Yet just as he was about to climb the first step, an agile hand circled his elbow and stopped him. Halting and turning his head, the man was pleasantly surprised when he saw it was none other than his lovely wife.

 

“Seen enough?” she asked, a knowing look in her eyes.

 

Ned smiled tiredly and sighed. “For a lifetime,” he acquiesced wryly.

 

“Be prepared, Ned. There’s no knowing who our other children will fall in love with. This might be just the beginning.”

 

While she was obviously japing, the idea didn’t please him in the least. The wave of dread that flew over him at that instant didn’t escape Catelyn’s notice.

 

Gently squeezing his arm to comfort him, she bore her gaze into his, her head tilted to the side mischievously. “Come on now, Ned, don’t be so pessimistic. I can see you’ve been preoccupied for far too long. I know a cure for that, but first you need to forget about everything and only think about us for once,” she proposed in a soft murmur, a coy smile lighting up her beautiful face.

 

At hearing her words, Eddard felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Hmm, yes. I think I can do that,” he agreed lowly, his lips curving into his first authentic grin in a very long time. “You’re a very wise woman, you know that?”

 

“Of course,” she replied haughtily.

 

Ned chuckled and, arm in arm, they both resumed their progress towards their bedchamber, feeling as light-hearted as newlyweds.

 

 

**THE END**


End file.
